Quest Magazine

Originally printed in the January - February  2001 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: O'Grady, John P. "Telling the Bees." Quest  89.1 (JANUARY - FEBRUARY  2001): 14-17, 23.

By John P. O'Grady

One summer day some years back a man showed up at the door seeking permission and something else. No ordinary caller, he was dressed in full beekeeping gear:coveralls, high-top Redwing boots, long coated gloves, and a thick veil of dark mesh that hung like an ominous cloud from the broad brim of his white hat. In his left hand he held an old, tin bee-smoker with noxious plumes curling from its stack. What was he doing here? We had no bees.

Yet he wasn't a total stranger, or so we told ourselves. Wasn't he the man seen every week at the farmers market, the one who sold the raw honey and beeswax? He had a small table with a hand-lettered sign on it that read "Locally produced." We never bought anything from him, and didn't know anybody who had. Stories around town hinted that his honey was tainted, his bees spent too much time up in the mountain laurel and rhododendron that grew on the mountains. Honey made from those flowers is said to contain a toxin that, ingested even in small amounts, leaves you flat on your back for a day or more, hallucinating. "Mad honey," the teenagers call it. Not that we had anything against a sweet madness or weren't willing to take a chance, but none of us cared for honey. We preferred maple syrup.

Before we could ask what brought him to our door, he told us. It had to do with a loss he suffered involving a particular beehive now located in our woods,or in the woods just beyond our woods. So he said. We didn't know anything about any bee hive. He assured us it was out there nonetheless, and it belonged to him.

He went on at length about the trouble that had arisen between this hive and himself. A falling out had occurred. About a year ago, the man's mother--whom he referred to as "the queen beekeeper"--had died. The next day the hive was empty, the bees having pulled the apiary equivalent of running away from home.

"They were upset with me," he explained. "You're supposed to tell the hive when ever there's a death in the house. They're sensitive, you know, and consider themselves part of the family. When mother died, I just forgot to tell them. You can understand this, can't you? It was a sad and busy time, so many things to take care of. Mother's last request was that her coffin be filled with honey before we put it in the ground. Not an unusual desire for a life long beekeeper, so don't look at me like that.

"I went out to the hive and gathered all the honey they had in there, but it was hardly enough. I had to call around to every honey warehouse in the region until I finally had what I needed. It was difficult work and involved a lot of driving, not to mention the grieving I was doing--no wonder I forgot to tell the bees mother had died. It's not like I was trying to hide anything from them or go out of my way to be rude. But the bees were peeved, and I don't know if they were offended because I didn't tell them about mother or because I went out and got all that stranger honey for her coffin. Whatever the reason, they abandoned me. It's terrible, and I've been looking for them ever since.

"I finally spotted one of them this morning and followed it up here. The hive must be nearby. I have to tell them I'm sorry. I just hope they forgive me and come home."

This entire story came to us through the dark mesh of his veil. Listening to it was like sitting on the priest's side of the confessional window. We wondered if he had been snacking on his own honeycomb.

"Look!" he exclaimed, pointing at something moving across our field toward the woods."There goes another one now."

None of us could see anything where he was pointing. Maybe a dark veil makes it easier to see the hard-to-see things.

"Would you mind," he asked, "if I followed that bee into your woods and had a look around for the hive?"

We felt a certain sympathy for him based on his story, and his request provided a novel reason to get outside, so we said sure. We even offered to help look for his bees out in our woods, or in the woods just beyond our woods--we were willing to go that far.

"Thanks," he said. "Follow me." He darted for the forest and was immediately taken in by it.

We were only about a minute behind him but it was already too late. The Catskill Mountains in summer are lush and fraught with obstacles to following even a man lumbering along in a beekeeper's suit. The leaves on the trees only serve to hide the immense lichen-shrouded boulders strewn everywhere. Trunks and leaves notwithstanding, those big rocks effectively hinder all lines of sight, so once the man stepped into the woods, that was it. For a while we could hear the crashing of his progress up-slope through the dark trees and thick under story. Soon, though, it faded away. Before long we were lost.

Maybe that's all we were after anyway. We did this sort of thing many a time, and rather enjoyed the aimless gadding about that inevitably brought us out on some faraway and unfamiliar road, where we could hitch our way home. Since we possessed no maps or guidebooks--save for a couple of antiquated and unreliable volumes acquired at flea markets--we came to know our region by employing more rash methods. Friendly fault finders have often suggested that my writing and thinking are caught in a similar drift.

Anyhow, since it looked like our mission was turning into another one of those free and easy wanderings, one of us proposed we wait around until a bee flew by, then follow it to the hive and the man. Such a plan was a bit more systematic than was our wont, but we agreed to give it a try. We didn't have long to wait. And we didn't need a veil to see the bee. Keeping up with it, however, was another story.

We lost it almost immediately, but at least we now had a confident vector to follow. We were making what progress we could when another bee buzzed by, confirming our course. Then another, and another. We had merged into honey bee rush hour traffic, and remained in it for more than an hour. Our bee line took us deeper into the woods and higher up on the mountain, but still no sign of the hive or its contrite keeper.

Just as we were about to give up hope of ever achieving our goal--and muttering that we didn't need the help of any bees to get ourselves lost in the woods--we came upon the tombstone. After that, we forgot all about the hive.

We were high in the mountains and far from the usual tombstone habitat. Up here you'd sooner expect to discover a bird-of-paradise in bloom. The marker itself was carved from native sandstone, and we found it toppled over, nearly buried in a few human life times of fallen leaves. We might have walked right past it, had it not been for the partially obscured letters engraved at the top.

"Hey, that looks like a tombstone! What's it say?"

We brushed away the upper layers of detritus, exhuming a name: Rip VanWinkle.

"No way! This is a joke, right? He was just a character in a story."

"Well, who would make a tombstone for him, and why put it up here?"

"Think a body's underneath there?"

"I don't know. Let's dig some more."

With our hands, we removed further layers of forest debris, going down through the moldy horizons of soil that had begun to consume the stone. Our works smelled like old books.

Soon a graven image was revealed, just below Rip's name. It looked like a mountain lion--around here they're called panthers--surrounded by seven stars, or what looked like stars. Maybe they were bees. Hard to tell what they were because the stone was so timeworn and soiled. The panther also had something in the grip of its jaws, perhaps another star or a bee. We kept digging.

We were past the organic layers and into the mineral soil and unconsolidated glacial till. By this point we were using sticks for digging tools. As we labored away, an inscription began to emerge, scrolling up from the earth as we scratched our way deeper into it:

Just above, upon this crest,
For twenty years Rip took a rest.
Now he's gone where all men go . . .

We had reached a point where the tombstone was broken off. The lower half with the remainder of the inscription was missing. We continued to dig, hoping to get to the bottom of it, but turned up nothing except more mineral soil and glacial till.

We were disappointed not to have the complete text of Rip Van Winkle's epitaph, but still we had this tantalizing fragment. In the years since, we've spent many a satisfying hour down at Pandora's Tavern discussing the questions the tombstone raised for us: Was this really Rip Van Winkle's grave? Was he a real person, and not just the offspring of an author's imagination? And if he was real, did he actually encounter that strange band of men in the wilderness, just as the story says?

You remember the story, don't you? Rip wanders off into the mountains with his dog one afternoon, ostensibly to do a little squirrel shooting but really he's trying to get away from his workaday duties and the clamor of his wife. Back then they didn't have sports bars and golf courses and men's groups; instead, a man went squirrel shooting. After hiking along for many hours and occasionally discharging his firearm into the trees but never hitting anything, Rip runs into this crew of odd-looking men dressed in quaint and outlandish clothes. Apparently they're having a party up here in the mountains--there's a keg of potent mead and everybody's playing at ninepins. Funny thing is, though these fellows are trying to whoop it up, none of them breaks a smile or even says a word. It's as if they can't decide whether to have a bachelor party or a funeral reception.

Rip is recruited to pour the mead into flagons and serve it to the somber revelers. He's happy to do so and, as a naturally thirsty soul, helps himself to repeated draughts of the brew. Before long his senses are overpowered and his eyes are swimming in his head. Finally, he passes out--for twenty years.

When at long last he awakens from his slumbers with one of those what-did-I-do-last-night headaches, there's no trace of the strange crew or his dog. In addition, his rifle is rusty, his beard is white, and his joints ache. If what the epitaph on the tombstone says is true, then we had come upon the very spot where the events in the story took place. Should the Park Service ever find out, they'd turn it into a National Historic Site, build a road up here, and put in a visitor center.

The problem is we were never again able to find that spot with its tombstone. On that long ago day, after many hours of roaming back down the mountain and through the forest, we finally broke out on a road. We were in an urgent haze of excitement. We couldn't wait to tell the world of our discovery. Rip Van  Winkle's tombstone--think of what this could mean!

Well, what the world--at least our small part of it--thought was we were nuts. Either that or making the whole thing up. Especially when, a few days later, we led a group from the local historical society up the mountain in order to show them the tombstone. It's easy to lose your way up there. We couldn't locate the spot.

Matters weren't helped any when the next week, seeking corroboration, we went to the farmers market looking for the man who sold the honey. He wasn't there,nor was he in the weeks following. Finally we asked around and were told he had moved away, taking his bees and mad honey with him. Now there was no way of knowing if he was even the one who showed up at our door that day. We never saw him again.

Events such as these certainly cast doubt on our impulsive methods of reckoning: the world demands proof and all we have is our word. But if you'll take mine for it, I assure you that tombstone is out there. We did find it once,way back when we followed the beekeeper into the forest. I myself have continued to look for Rip Van Winkle's tombstone--often in the company of friends--but alas, no luck. My understanding companions, however, usually enjoy the hike, and all of them like the story.

Their favorite aspect of the tale, more often than not, concerns the last extant line of the epitaph: "Now he's gone where all men go . . . ." People have always been intrigued by the question of where it is, exactly, that all men go. And for that matter, where do they come from? Whether pertaining to flesh-and-blood historical figures or mere fictional characters, questions of coming-into-being and passing-away remain vital.

A few weeks after our dismal performance with the historical society, a jar of honey showed up at our front door. A note attached to it read: "Thanks. Fred." Was it from the beekeeper? Did he actually locate the hive, tell the bee she was sorry, and bring them home? Was this was his way of thanking us for our help? Even if that was so--and we never did find out for sure--none of us were willing to try that honey. Those bees had been living too long on their own up in the wild reaches of the mountains. Who knows what unfamiliar nectar they may have been sipping.

Or perhaps the jar left at our door was simply an accident.This Fred had made a mistake, confusing our place for that of someone to whom he owed a debt of honeyed gratitude. Or more likely, the whole thing was just a prank by one of the many skeptics we encountered in telling of our experience. No matter. Let's just say something like along these lines is what happened.

Thus our mysterious beekeeper--that veiled man on a quest for forgiveness--is still out there in the forest, high up in the Catskill Mountains. Like Rip Van Winkle,he ran into a strange crew of sourpuss men playing at ninepins and trying to have a party. He wound up serving as their bartender and helping himself to repeated draughts of their wicked mead. If that's the case, he ought to be waking up any day now.

John P. O'Grady teaches English at Allegheny College in Meadville, Pennsylvania. "Telling the Bees" is from Grave Goods: Essays of a Peculiar Nature, a new collection of his work to be published by the University of Utah Press, which will include also a number of other articles first published in the Quest.

Originally printed in the January-February 2000 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: West, John Anthony. "The Wisdom of Ancient Egypt." Quest  89.1 JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2000): 12-15

By John Anthony West

After some twenty years of promises, R. A. Schwaller de Lubicz's masterwork, The Temple of Man, has finally appeared in English in an inspired translation by Deborah and Robert Lawlor and an equally inspired two-volume production job by the publishers:

The Temple of Man: Apet of the South at Luxor.
By R. A. Schwaller de Lubicz. Trans. Deborah Lawlor and Robert Lawlor. Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions, 1998. 2 vols. Hardback, $195, xxviii + [vi] + 1048 pages, 300 figures, 101 plates.

This book is, in my opinion, the single most important work of scholarship of this or any other century. It is a work of pure genius; the more you study it, the more it seems impossible for a single man to have accomplished. Starting with a single revelatory observation in Egypt in 1937, Schwaller de Lubicz, over the course of some twenty years, was able to piece together the sacred science of the ancients and present it in rigorously documented fashion.

Throughout recorded history, scholars, philosophers, artists, and architects have paid homage to and in many cases practiced the ancient sacred science—or however much of it they still could access. Neo-Platonists, Gnostics, Rosicrucians, Masons, alchemists, astrologers, magicians, and kabbalists all claimed their knowledge descended from very ancient times, and most believed that Egypt was its source. Kepler, for example, exulted when he discovered the orbital paths of the planets, asserting that he had rediscovered the knowledge of the Egyptians. But few students, if any, actually set out to prove the extent of Egyptian knowledge, and even if such an attempt had been made, the raw data was not available to lay the groundwork for accomplishing it. In the light of this persistent tradition and of the insights of a handful of modern scholars and travelers, the first 150 years of Egyptology may be seen as an extended exercise in meticulous incomprehension. Nevertheless, that work supplied Schwaller with the factual material needed for his total reinterpretation.

Schwaller's work concerned mainly the New Kingdom temple of Luxor, which he called "the Temple of Man." In its measurements, geometry, harmonies, and proportions, he discovered the elements of a profound spiritual cosmology in which art, religion, philosophy, and science were fused into a single comprehensive doctrine—the sacred science of the ancient world.

All those bizarre animal-headed gods were not figments of the primitive imagination or carry-overs from still more primitive animistic religions, as was commonly believed, but rather were embodiments of cosmic principles—the "Ideas" through which Universal Consciousness descended into the manifest universe. It is precisely the recognition of such principles that is lacking in our own technologically brilliant, but philosophically naive and spiritually empty secular science.

Fertilization, gestation, birth, growth, maturity, senescence, death, rebirth, and resurrection are the principles of the organic world. Polarity, relationship, substantiality, potentiality, time-and-space, and process are among the principles of the cosmological world. These, given appropriate names and forms were the "gods" of Egypt. Each was associated with its own number symbolism, which in turn commanded the geometry of the temples erected to commemorate that "god" and to evoke in the eye and heart and intellect of the beholder communion with that principle or set of principles.

Schwaller called the Egyptian sacred science the "Doctrine of the Anthropocosm" (or human-cosmos). We embody within us, as human beings, all the laws and principles that operate within the greater, divine cosmos that sustains and embraces us. And our intelligence, correctly deployed, gives us access to the knowledge of all there is. Acquisition of that knowledge holds the promise of eternal life, immortality, and entry into the Higher Consciousness responsible for our being here.

Carefully, step-by-step, Schwaller develops this great doctrine and shows how it—not some arbitrary superstitious architectural genius peculiar to the Egyptians—is responsible for the geometry, proportions, and stone harmonies of Luxor Temple. He also shows how this doctrine is expressed through the elaborate religious symbolism displayed in ruinous but still resonating reliefs carved into its acres of walls.

Schwaller, moreover, is able to show (directly in certain cases, indirectly in others) that this doctrine was not peculiar to Egypt. Nor was Egypt necessarily the highest expression of it in antiquity; it is just that more of Egypt is left for us to study, and it is carved in stone. His inquiries find a similar mathematical understanding enshrined in a Mayan codex, and a final chapter devoted to the Hindu temple by the remarkable Orientalist, Stella Kramrish, finds a very similar doctrine pervading the much later temples of India. The lesson seems to be that at one time in the very distant past, initiates of all the great civilizations had access to this doctrine, and the so-called primitive tribes had it too, perhaps in less intellectualized but no less realizable form. It is we moderns who have lost it, to our peril.

When Le Temple de l'Homme first appeared in French in 1957, the eminent Egyptologist Etienne Drioton counseled his colleagues to "build a common wall of silence" around it lest it find its way out into public view. With just a few notable exceptions, that injunction was obeyed within Egyptology itself. And it has been left to a handful of independent writers and researchers owing no allegiance to the Egyptological or any other establishment (myself among them) to try to make Schwaller's work as accessible as possible to a lay audience. Our books and videos, along with English translations of Schwaller's other books appearing over the intervening decades—all in one way or another extensions or amplifications of The Temple of Man—have, I think, successfully breached that wall of silence.

Change within academic Egyptology is about as perceptible as Pluto in orbit, but a recent review of The Temple of Man in the lay Egyptological magazine KMT suggests that however imperceptible, change has nonetheless taken place. Egyptologist Greg Reeder, though clearly understanding neither the magnitude nor the essence of Schwaller's contribution, nonetheless acknowledges that it "deserves discussion and debate." He calls on colleagues with intimate knowledge of the Luxor Temple to "take a serious look at The Temple of Man and respond to Schwaller's special interpretation of the structure's layout and decoration." In a discipline where any movement at all is cause for celebration, this recommendation represents a giant baby step forward.

Reeder calls Schwaller's interpretation "highly controversial." Actually, it's not. The measurements of the temple are beyond reproach; Egyptologists acknowledge this. The geometry flows from the measurements, and the interpretation in all its manifold aspects (mathematics, astronomy, astrology, symbolism, cosmology, mythology, art, architecture, and even medicine) flows from the geometry. If orthodox scholars want to challenge Schwaller rather than ignore him, they will have to find flaws or alternative explanations for the geometry or alternative explanations for the interpretations based on that geometry. If they are unable to do so, then symbolist Egypt simply supercedes and replaces all that preceded it, and the Egypt of the Egyptians replaces the Egypt of the Egyptologists, a cheerful prospect. That replacement would not in any way detract from the wealth of data that allowed Schwaller to produce his interpretation in the first place.

At issue, of course, is much more than an academic dispute. It is my own conviction that no human civilization worthy of that name is possible if it is not founded on an understanding that the human soul is immortal by nature or (as Hermes Trismegistus puts it in the Hermetica) "may strive to become so." The lunatic asylum we live in at present is the result of three centuries of materialistic science and a deluded rationalism supposedly (though not actually) based on that science. Through Schwaller's work in developing the Doctrine of the Anthropocosm, it becomes apparent that the ancient sacred science is indeed a science. It is not credulous superstition. It is not belief. It is not even faith (emotional experiential knowledge, as opposed to belief). It is a science.

If we are to escape from the asylum (a.k.a. the Church of Progress), it can only come through the reestablishment of that sacred science on this earth. While we surely will not be building pyramids or Temples of Luxor again, or mummifying our pharaohs either, the principles upon which the Egyptian doctrine were founded are eternal. It is not impossible that, before it is too late, a way will be found to reestablish that Doctrine on earth in a context and form appropriate for our upcoming Age of Aquarius.

The Temple of Man is not bedtime reading, but readers willing to put in the effort to study it in depth will finally understand why ancient Egypt was regarded by the classical civilizations of Greece and Rome as the source of all wisdom. It was. Readers will come to understand why that wisdom has been opposed so virulently by the priesthood of our own Church of Progress and to appreciate the manner in which civilized human beings once comported themselves. They will also learn why Egypt, even in ruins, remains a magnet for travelers and why its temples, tombs, and pyramids still rightly provoke our awe and wonder.

The reviewer is author of Serpent in the Sky: The High Wisdom of Ancient Egypt and The Traveler's Key to Ancient Egypt (Quest Books). He leads intensive study tours of Egypt.

Originally printed in the January-February 2000 issue of Quest magazine.
Citation: Crowley, Vivianne. "Explorations: Jung in England: Ghost and Personality Types." Quest  89.1 JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2000): 28-29

By Vivianne Crowley

In 1920, Carl Jung, the father of Analytic Psychology, was invited to Britain to give seminars. In his leisure time he visited Tintagel Castle, the supposed birthplace of King Arthur, and mystical Glastonbury, where St. Joseph of Arimathea is reputed to have brought the Holy Grail for safekeeping. Jung's intuitive mind had been open to the paranormal from a very early age. In Britain, he was in a land steeped in history—and in ghosts.

Ghosts

Jung disliked hotels, so he asked a friend to help him rent a cheap country cottage where he could stay on weekends. However, when he was at the cottage, he got little rest. On the first weekend, he woke to find a sickly smell pervading the bedroom. The next weekend, the smell was accompanied by a rustling noise of something brushing along the walls. It seemed to Jung that a large animal must be in the room. On the third weekend, there were knocking sounds. By now, most people would have given up and decided to spend their weekends elsewhere, but not Jung. On the fifth weekend, he woke up to find a hideous apparition beside him on the pillow. It was an old woman, part of whose face was missing.

Jung questioned the cleaners, who confirmed that the cottage was indeed haunted. This explained the suspiciously low rent and the cleaners' reluctance to be there after dark. Not all of Jung's colleagues were inclined to believe in ghosts. The colleague who had rented the cottage on Jung's behalf was unimpressed with what Jung told him, so Jung challenged him to spend the night there. He tried, but was so terrified he did not even remain in the bedroom. He took his bed into the garden and slept outside with his shotgun beside him. Shortly afterward, the cottage's owner had it demolished—it was impossible for anyone to live there.

Personality Types

One of Jung's aims during his British seminars in 1920 was to refine his ideas about personality. In 1921, he published what is now the sixth volume of his Collected Works, entitled Psychological Types. In addition to two attitudes to the world, extroversion and introversion, Jung identified four personality types or functions: "sensation," "intuition," "thinking," and "feeling." Of these psychological types or functions, Jung wrote (Psychological Types 518):

For complete orientation all four functions should contribute equally: thinking should facilitate cognition and judgment, feeling should tell us how and to what extent a thing is important for us, sensation should convey concrete reality to us through seeing, hearing, tasting, etc., and intuition should enable us to divine the hidden possibilities in the background, since these too belong to the complete picture of a given situation.

The idea that there are four basic personality types is found in many cultures and is at the heart of astrology. The ancient Greeks believed that the whole of creation was made up of four elements—Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Personality was seen as influenced by these four elements—people were a mixture of the elements, but in each of us one element predominates, affecting our personality and body type. The personality types relate to the four elements: sensation to Earth, thinking to Air, intuition to Fire, and feeling to Water. The idea that intuition is fiery may seem strange, but if you consider Jung's idea of intuition as akin to creative inspiration, then it begins to make sense.

The personality types also relate to the astrological signs through the four elements. In astrology, the Air signs are Aquarius, Gemini, and Libra; the Fire signs are Aries, Leo, and Sagittarius; the Water signs are Pisces, Cancer, and Scorpio; and the Earth signs are Taurus, Virgo, and Capricorn. If a patient was particularly difficult to understand, Jung would send him or her to an expert astrologer to have a natal chart prepared, which Jung would then interpret psychologically. There is no simple relationship between sun sign and dominant personality type, but a skilled astrologer can predict the dominant personality type from the overall dynamics of the chart.

Four Functions

In order to function in the world, we need to receive information and then make judgments about how to act on it. Sensation and intuition are different ways of perceiving and receiving information. Thinking and feeling are judging functions. They are two different measuring instruments that help us to process the information we receive.

We cannot use two perceptual functions or two judging functions at the same time. The different modes of perceiving—sensation and intuition—are like looking at the world through different pairs of glasses with different lenses. We can only use one pair at a time. We call on the other when we need to, but it is less familiar to us and therefore we use it less skillfully. Similarly, we cannot use two judgment functions as measuring instruments at the same time. We use either thinking or feeling first to evaluate the data we receive, and then call on the other for extra information.

Jung's ideas on personality types are clearly illustrated by four characters in the original Star Trek series: Mr. Spock, the thinker; Dr. McCoy or Bones, the feeler; Scotty, the sensate engineer; and Captain Kirk, the intuitive leader. Captain Kirk's impulsiveness was always getting them into trouble, but his leaps of lateral imagination got them out again. When the team worked well together, they solved most of their problems.

Thinking and Feeling

Thinking tells us whether something is logical and rational, correct or incorrect. Thinking types enjoy analyzing information and making logical decisions. They tend to be good at science, mathematics, or business. Introverted thinking people like computers and classification systems. They can be good at playing the stock market and gambling. Extroverted thinkers love to organize others. They are born administrators.

Feeling tells us whether something is pleasant or unpleasant, good or bad, helpful or harmful. We need our feeling function when dealing with people and making relationships. Feeling people make good social workers who will move heaven and earth to help a deserving client. Feeling people build relationships of trust and are excellent parents, teachers, and ministers.

Sensation and Intuition

Sensation operates through the physical senses, and we use it to discover facts. Sensation types are usually practical people who spot physical clues that others miss. As doctors, they make good diagnosticians. As mechanics, they will often recognize the annoying engine noise that electronic faultfinding devices failed to identify. As fashion experts, they match color with an unerring eye. Sensation is reality-oriented, focused in the here and now. Sensate people remember names and dates and make great collectors, whether of stamps or antiques.

Intuition shows us meanings and implications. It tells us how situations are likely to develop in the future. Intuitives have hunches and "know" things, but do not know how they know. Intuition is the function of the imagination. People with extroverted intuition have an idea where society is going and will be at the leading edge of new technologies, businesses, fashions, and creeds. They love new ideas and new projects. Introverted intuition is the function of the creative writer and of the daydreamer. Intuitives can be content to dream their lives away without ever bringing their brilliant imaginings to fruition—they start more than they finish.

Dominant and Secondary Functions

Our dominant and secondary functions are the perceptual and judgmental functions that we use most in everyday life. These functions impact on our outer personality, affecting how people see us and react to us.

Relating to a person whose first and second functions are opposite to ours can create problems. Sensate thinkers are interested in practical matters, business, and politics. They will be easily bored by discussions about people's feelings. Intuitive feelers are romantic. They like being told that their partner loves them. "Of course I love you," the sensate thinker replies, "I bought you that new CD player, didn't I?" Intuitive thinkers talk about abstract ideas and find sensate feelers materialistic. A sensate feeling parent may feel hurt by an intuitive thinking child's apparent coldness. When she or he is in the middle of doing something complex on the computer, an intuitive thinker may find it irritating to feel obliged to respond to a sensate feeling person's need for hugs. This does not make these relationships impossible, but it does make them more challenging.

Vivianne Crowley is a Jungian psychologist and the author of Jung, a Journey of Transformation: Exploring His Life and Experiencing His Ideas (Quest Books, 1999), from which this article has been edited.

VOLUME 88, NUMBER 1

Contents

René Schwaller de Lubicz and the Intelligence of the Heart
By Gary Lachman

The Wisdom of Ancient Egypt
By John Anthony West

Forming a Prayer Group
By Sam Menahem

Confessions of a Zen Jew
By Max Roth

Explorations: Jung in England: Ghosts and Personality Types
By Vivianne Crowley

Viewpoint: On Being Eclectic
By John Algeo

Thinking Aloud: Tourists or Pilgrims?
By Chris Richardson