Opposing Selves—Roles and Masks: “Who is it that can tell me who I am?”
Joanne Stroud, Ph.D.
The subtitle of this talk is a quotation from King Lear, uttered by the protagonist himself. Do you know who answers this provocative question? And I would like to add a second quotation for you to consider. In another scene, Regan, Lear’s unworthy daughter, acknowledges: “Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself” ( I, i, 292).
How do we know who we really are? First I want to talk about individual identity. Why did Socrates twenty-four hundred years ago suggest it is so difficult to know oneself? Why did the lintel piece at the temple of Apollo at Delphi built into the side of Mount Parnassus carry the famous inscription “Know Thyself”? After we talk about how we fathom individual identity, we will take up the questions of our collective identity. Is it possible to ascribe a character to a city or a country? In the imagination, certainly Athens, Sparta, Rome, Florence, Paris, and London each stands out in its own specific way.
Let’s begin by thinking about the invisible forms that underlie individual personality.
C. G. Jung, the Swiss psychologist, called these patterns “archetypal,” meaning that they are inherent and inherited. These patterns are non-specific genetic structures that define all human beings, just as all of us have common instincts even though we use them in quite different ways. Jung’s labels and personifications are helpful for understanding the multivalent nature of psyche. Concepts such as the shadow, the persona or mask, and anima and animus, for our contra-sexual inclinations, are of prime importance in understanding the human psyche, as they pattern our behavior like the matrix in a liquid patterns the form of the emmerging crystal. Jung’s psychological system is called “analytical psychology” and was elaborated upon by James Hillman, one of the Founding Fellows of the Institute. In Hillman’s “archetypal psychology,” to understand ourselves it is necessary to peel away the outer layers. This process begins with examining the persona or mask, the façade, or how we would like to have the world look at us. We can make some fairly conscious decisions about our personas. We can assume roles and live them out as mothers, fathers, or teachers. In actuality we need to have a persona, as we can’t afford to let the entire world share our every thought. And yet we know that these titles don’t really define us. Through some self-reflection we can observe ourselves functioning within our personas; we can hear the difference in our language and feel the effects when we shift into these masks. In the play “The Great God Brown,” the protagonists slip in and out of their masks when they speak or, at rare, intimate moments, drop their masks? Let me read W. B. Yeats’s teasing poem “The Mask”
‘Put off that mask of burning gold
With emerald eyes.’
‘O no, my dear, you make so bold
To find if hearts be wild and wise,
And yet not cold.’
‘I would be finding what’s there to find,
Love or deceit.’
‘It was the mask engaged your mind,
And after set your heart to beat.
Not what’s behind.’
‘But lest you are my enemy’
I must enquire.’
‘O no, my dear, let all that be;
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?’ 1
Let’s take a few minutes to talk about the properties of the physical as opposed to psychological mask. Masks are used in religious ceremonies to facilitate passage into other realms such as those inhabited by spirits or animal totems. The mask marks the borderline, the edge that separates unalikes. The mask has a sacred quality as the meeting place with the world. In the theater it is the locus of the encounter with the god Dionysus. Its liminality marks it as special. Look around at those African and Polynesian masks Ned Boschel gave us here at the Institute—their sense of mystery is haunting.
We can never really fathom all the hidden layers of our personalities, and without being agonizing navel-gazers, we can certainly extend our self-awareness. Let’s continue outlining our Jungian designations of the constituent levels of the psyche. In terms of integration, after the mask or persona, comes the shadow. We are far less aware of the shadow, that which carries those qualities that we would like not to have to own. The shadow comprises the difference between who we are and who we think we are. Acknowledging that we have a shadow is hard, but absolutely necessary in Jung’s opinion. It is most likely we will never see the full extent of our shadows. Ken Wilbur says, “There is no human being who has stopped projecting onto others his dark inferiorities or his light heroic longings.”2 We resort to all kinds of defensive behavior to avoid actually facing these uncomfortable aspects of ourselves. The reward for opening up the shadow box is an enlargement of personality and a more even balance of energy.
Here is a poem by the Spanish poet Juan Ramon Jumenez which deals with one kind of shadow, more like a double, with the title “Yo No Soy Yo”
I am not I
I am this one who walks besides me
Whom I do not see
Who at times I manage to visit
And who at other times I forget–
The one who forgives sweet when I hate
The one who takes walks when I am indoors
The one who remains silent when I talk,
And the one who will remain standing when I die.
We are never all that we would like to be, or feel that we could be. I understand that a facetious prayer goes like this: “Dear Lord, I pray that I may be as my dog sees me.” On most days we feel we have the steadiness of a singular identity, although we are more or less aware that we are many faceted beings. We rely on the basic center of our personality to hold firm, while at the periphery we can be flexible without experiencing any loss of a sense of continuity. At the same time, we recognize that we are full of complexities and untapped layers. Mark Antony says of Cleopatra: “Age cannot stale nor custom wither her infinite variety.”
The ego and the shadow are the flip sides of each other, growing together, hand in hand. In their Introduction to Meeting the Shadow Connie Zweig and Jeremiah Abrams explain, “The ego and the shadow then develop in tandem, creating each other out of the same life experience,”3 which accounts for the difficulty we have separating them. It isn’t that we don’t need a strong ego to hold the many parts of our psyches together. Those parts of the personality not assimilated can develop into split-off neuroses. They can fly apart, causing much confusion and pain. Psychotic is the word we use to describe the person who cannot hold the tension existent between the opposites of love and hate, or confidence and fear. This condition ranges from “normal” feelings of rage or hate for those we love the most, all the way to the schizophrenic hearing of many different voices urging divergent paths to follow.
Claiming our shadow self is the great task of self-knowledge. We tend to think of it as the burden of individuation, but the shadow self is not always negative. It is like the dark side of the moon, inaccessible, hidden from view. Zweig and Abrams call it “the disruptive element that does not want to be known”(xvi). Joseph Campbell explains that the shadow is outside our self-image but always trying to make a synthesis with it and adds, “In the solar view that we like to have of ourselves, all shadows flee the sun.” (91) Some Jungian critics say that the entire area of unconsciousness is the shadow. As large as the shadow challenge is, Jung was more specific in his designations of unconsciousness. When King Lear asks: “Who is it who can tell me who I am?” the king’s Fool (who of course is not such a fool) replies: “Lear’s shadow.” Shakespeare’s play centers on the painful self-recognition that finally comes to Lear and the Duke of Gloucester. Self-deception by those who should be wise or think themselves wise is a recurrent Shakespearean theme in such plays as Much Ado, Twelfth Night, and All’s Well. Generally it requires interaction with others to discover our shadows in an environment totally removed from everyday life. The literary critic Maynard Mack comments on how frequently Shakespeare uses the device o f removing the protagonists to another environment. Often it is an Arcadian or magical setting where one confronts the unacknowledged qualities on one’s character. Lear’s testing ground is the opposite of the pastoral. It is upon the unfriendly Heath that he learns bitter lessons. We find ours in group therapy. Mack compares Lear’s task to a Medieval Morality play: “Lear, flanked in that opening scene by ‘vices or flatterers on the one hand, virtues and truth-speakers on the other’–stirs memories of a far more ancient dramatic hero, variously called Mankind, Everyman, Genus Humanum, Rex, Vivus, Rex Humanitas, Magnificence, etc. He is about to endure an agon that, while infinitely more poignant and complex than theirs, has its roots in the same medieval conception of psychomachia, interpreting man’s life as “the arena of a Holy War between the contending forces of his own nature . . . [They] are in some sense (again as in the Morality plays) extensions of himself, who will struggle to assist or defeat him, and most of them show a monolithic simplicity and singleness of being which makes them representative.”4 Lear’s blind self-satisfaction makes him—despite his other virtues—a gullible and ultimately tragic hero.
The great Greek tragedians had a word for blindness to the shadow—hubris. The hero is one who has qualities that are larger than life. Often, it is the very characteristic that is his strength that also reveals his flaws. Oedipus could answer the sphinx’s riddle but couldn’t recognize his own complicity in the city’s plague. He could see but still not see. The hero who cannot recognize boundaries inevitably oversteps them–sometimes violating the realm of the gods by assuming that he or she is more than human.
In our century psychology provides tools for reckoning with the persistent shadow, a function that was once provided by the study of myth and religion. Archetypal psychology employs myth as its primary rhetoric. These stories reveal the full dimension of characteristic behavior patterns as through a magnifying glass. These capricious gods and goddesses have both virtues and drawbacks clearly palpable. Zweig and Abrams explain: “The Greeks understood this problem all too well, and their religion compensated for the underside of life. It was on the same mountainside above Delphi that the Greeks annually celebrated their orgiastic bacchanals and glorified the forceful, creative presence of the nature god Dionysus in human beings.”(xxi) This subtle differentiation of polytheism, the all-inclusive picture of diversity, provides a tool for embracing opposites, whereas in the Christian tradition’s depiction of Christ and Satan, it is hard not to view the world as divided into good and evil and risk slipping into the simplistic, black and white designations.
In America we live with many Calvinist influences. It is almost impossible to engage in dialogue in our current political life because everything is viewed in terms of extreme, intractable opposites. There can be no meeting of the minds if differing views are regarded as unredeemable opposites. Everything white (in the eyes of the viewer) is cast as good and everything black as evil—the guys in the white hats, etc. The whole problem of persons of color versus whites is in our national shadow and apt to stay there harboring an explosive power. In our polyglot nation we have such an opportunity to prove that differences can be bridged. We could be remembered in the future as a country that contributed to greater understanding between the various races and religions.
An awareness of archetypes provides a psychic container for seeing bridges or meeting places between what I am absolutely convinced is true and what you believe, although our beliefs may be diametrically opposed. I am not advocating having no opinion at all—being a moral relativist. Instead, I suggest an approach where we are able to be interested in another’s viewpoint, to be somewhat open to fresh ideas and, at the very least, to be courteously respectful of the other.
Archetypal psychology stimulates the mythical imagination that is presently in short supply. By giving personal problems a broader context, relating them to similar difficulties experienced by characters in religious parables, myths or folk tales, this move doesn’t exactly depersonalize them but does ameliorate some of the despair. Jim Hillman explains: “Any image termed `archetypal’ is immediately valued as universal, trans-historical, basically profound, generative, highly intentional, and necessary.”5 The personal soul is broadened to relate to the realm of the world and to include automatically the suffering of anima mundi. This redirection of attention lessens one’s self-centered personal intensity and frees energy to bestow value upon the things of the world. Have you ever thought that, for a culture that is so material, we Americans sometimes don’t care so much for actual matter? We have much material waste, and not only of the nuclear variety. Currently, we read that states are having increasing difficulties getting rid of their waste products.
Let’s return to our Jungian model. Jung claimed that we have acquired clusters of complexes that propel us into repetitive responses. He regards complexes “as the multiple consciousness at the base of psychic life” (CW8 para. 388ff). Long before we knew we were making choices, we developed invisible shields as a way of fending off psychic blows and protecting our vulnerability. Any situation that reminds us of some past event can trigger an automatic reaction. In such instances we can be taken by surprise by our defensive reactions, or by strong likes or aversions, by our prejudices. These are the sensitivity buttons that even a two-year-old learns quickly how to push. How can they be so intuitive, we wonder? Our friends can see our shadows more clearly than we can. We will be subject to flattery or manipulation if we have not delved into our shadow. This is Lear’s problem and also Othello’s. The sunlit part of the personality is what we prefer—the part that we consider noble. Whenever we start feeling too uplifted or impressed with our nobility or too important, we need to remember that it is prudent to turn around and assess the shadow that follows along behind.
Like the literal shadow, the psychic one gets longer as the day lengthens and often appears in full force at night in our dreams. As the depository of all that we have left out of the daylight hours our dreams can show us where our fears lie. They can also balance out what we feel may be incomplete in our lives. Not only can they contrast what we have dwelt upon all day, but they can also continue working on unsolved problems, which explains why we can wake up with answers to problems we couldn’t solve the day before. A dream once revealed to me that I had a health problem that I had been too busy to face. Interestingly, it has been claimed that Zen masters cease to dream after attaining a certain level of enlightenment, presumably because they have been able to integrate much of their unconscious material into consciousness.
The monsters that chase us in nightmares are the leading characters in fairy tales and folklore. It is salutary for children to hear about giants and witches instead of facing their nightmares and fears in solitude. Do parents still read Grimm’s Fairy Tales to their children or is it all Disney and the Little Mermaid? Instead of scaring small children, fierce fairy tales actually help them to know that others see giants (parents) or witches (hateful women) or sinister wolves or bluebeards. Marie-Louise von Franz explains how seeing into an archetypal image helps to see into our complexes:
All the complexes and general structures, i.e., collective complexes which we call complexes, have a light and a dark side and a polarized system. A model of an archetype can be said to be composed of two spheres, one light and the other dark. With the archetype of the Great Mother you have the witch, the devilish mother, the beautiful wise old woman, and the Goddess who represents fertility. In the archetype of the spirit there is the wise old man and the destructive or demonic magician represented in many myths. The archetype of the king can indicate the fertility and strength of the tribe or nation, or the old man who suffocates new life and should be deposed. The hero can be the renewal of life, or the great destroyer, or both. Every archetypal figure has its own shadow. Is that shadow a genuine phenomenon or does it come from the way we look at it? We do not know what an archetype looks like in the unconscious, but when it enters the fringe of consciousness, as in a dream, which is a half-conscious phenomenon, it manifests the double aspect. Only when light falls on an object does it throw a shadow.6
After the shadow comes the more difficult area of the psyche to penetrate: our relationship to the contrasexual aspects of psyche. We are both male and female, regardless of our gender. In order to be “feminine,” we may downplay our leadership abilities, our courage, or our spontaneity. This dumbing down of the self occurs in many young women in early adolescence when the competition for male attention intensifies. Then we may look for that certain man to carry the role of the hero for us. In Ibsen’s “The Doll’s House,” think of Nora who gives her hero projection to Torvald. But then the shadow starts to “rattle,” to use Maria Louise Van Franz’s term. It doesn’t quite fit. Another symptom may be that the male gets tired of being the responsible one while his wife refuses to learn how to balance her checkbook.
If you are a man, you may have learned to hide many of your feelings. Then you look for a woman to carry this function for you. It is easier to marry a quality than to develop it. A woman frequently has a little genie sitting on her shoulder saying she’s no good, she’s inadequate, she’s not up to the job. The genie always reminds her that the house isn’t as clean as it could be, providing a perfect arena for feeling apologetic. If you are on the tennis court, just listen to how constantly women are saying they are sorry for missing a shot. A man has a different little genie sitting on his shoulder saying: ” Hey, you’re cute. You don’t need your wife. She doesn’t appreciate you.”
Frequently both women and men, through laziness or discomfort, project their spiritual side onto a guru or a spiritual guide. This giving away of power accounts for the remarkable strength of leaders to persuade their followers into extreme acts such as the mass suicides of Jamestown or the martyrdom of the Branch Davidians at Waco.
Robert Bly, who spoke here to the Institute eight years ago, wrote a small, excellent book on the human shadow. One of the most effective metaphors he uses to describe the shadow is that of a long bag that we drag around behind us. He says we come into the world with a 360-degree personality. Then we start putting in the bag all the parts of our personality that our parents, our teachers, and later our friends do not like. Early in our development, sexuality and closeness to bodily processes are put in the bag. Then anger and, especially for the boy child in our culture, often tenderness and attachment to female values are also thrown into the bag. Other values hidden away include a love for the earth and respect for the sustainability of our planet. Fierceness and animal joy go into the bag, those wonderful sources of energy. Actually, everyone without serious health problems has more than enough energy. We waste our energy keeping the bag shut. We know that the aborigines in Australia or the Mexican Indians in Copper Canyon can run for days without eating. We have to go around the corner to Starbucks or Hagen Das to keep our energy up. Whenever we feel loss of energy, we can assume that energy is trapped in the bag. Whatever we have put into the bag regresses into a more primitive state as a result of being caught there.
The contents of the bag get our attention by being projected out onto other people. The shadow identifies itself with some opinion or institution, or, most often, with someone of the same sex who we strongly dislike. That is the way the material in the bag notifies us that it’s there. So the first stage is recognizing that certain people and certain situations repetitively attract our ire. The second stage requires the difficult realization that most often those characteristics we single out in others are actually reminiscent of the unacceptable parts of ourselves. The third stage is to recapture these projections before they cause a lot of harm. By, ignoring the shadow, we can engage in some intense scape-goating. The other person may provide the hook, but it’s our material that we hang there. It’s so easy to dismiss our competition, because after all “she is pretty stupid and self-centered, isn’t she?”
When we project we transfer some of our psychic energy to the other person. Falling in love involves a projection of idealized qualities on the other and an exchange of energy, which accounts for the heightened sense of excitement we feel. But in other circumstances, by hanging our own problems out there we may not be able to respond to the essence of the other person at all. Like an arrow, our psychic debris can be extremely detrimental to others. It can also be used as a dangerous means of manipulation.
Casting negative qualities on another is a ploy designed to make one feel superior. Instead, the result of such projections is that one actually feels diminished and has to reinforce such harsh opinions of others in order to bolster one’s own ego. When we feel inferior, we attribute superior strength to others and look for someone to blame for our problems. In our century, the obvious example of mass projection is the phenomenon of Hitler’s power over the German people and the blanket projecting of hate upon the Jewish people. It behooves us to examine our shadow. Projecting the shadow is something that happens without our awareness, whereas withdrawing it takes much conscious effort.
It is not easy, but we can learn to eat the shadow. Churchill said that he had to eat his words many times and that he found the diet very nourishing. A sense of humor about even those things we hold dearest helps this process of shadow integration along. I was reminded the other day that Benjamin Franklin once made a list of twelve virtues specifying that without “humility” none of the others mattered.
To return to Bly’s image again, what are the contents of our national shadow bag that we do not recognize? What kind of cultural baggage are we carrying? Many of the things that go into the bag are not of our conscious choosing. Margo Jefferson says that “our nation’s vision of us and itself shapes us as thoroughly as our family does” (N.Y.Times, Feb 20, 1999). What is our nation’s vision of us and itself? We think of ourselves as guardians of individualism and of freedom. We still pay lip service to the verities of the Declaration of Independence. In what ways have the ideals changed? As I write this talk, I ask myself, what are the most pressing problems facing us either as individuals or as a nation as we approach the millennium? I would like to hear from you about this point.
In America we are currently experiencing a second wind in terms of economic success in the field of telecommunications. With our relentless materialism, have we developed a kind of national hubris? Does our economic success give us the right to dictate globally what others must do? Do we need to examine whether what works for us is in actuality appropriate for other countries and their particular problems?
I think of Dallas as a “can do” city. But do we, with our admirable self-confidence and possessed with much “energy” both psychological and actual (like petroleum under the ground), push the business of the day before the quality of life in our city? When do we fail to evaluate the consequences or recognize drawbacks in our intense regard for commerce or our voracious appetite for progress? Is the unbridled expansion of northward development necessarily what we want to achieve, or would it be wiser to opt for “smart growth”? How would we like to ahve future generations regard us—as having built the largest stadiums and sports arenas, or as having built the most beautiful symphony hall? Would we choose to design a building using the beautiful proportions of sacred geometry that Keith Critchlow claims accounts for permanence in monumental buildings?
I notice that an organization that I belong to is having a panel discussion next week during which Lee Cullum, Rena Pederson, Kay Cattarulla and Juanita Miller will debate the question “Is Dallas A Great City Yet-Or Just a Midwestern Burg with Veneer?” I find it refreshing that we are interested in talking about such issues and not just assuming that we have all the answers.
In what ways is Dallas different from Fort Worth? Does Dallas (other than the situation and characters portrayed on the television show) have a recognizable character? Does the television show tap into stereotypes that we recognize or is this a fictitious location? Perhaps we are a trifle embarrassed to be singled out and portrayed in this way. I know it was painful for me to think that I might belong with those folk down at the South Fork ranch. If the portrayal had not embodied something that we recognized as part of us, wouldn’t we have been more able to laugh at it? Did we experience it as a not so subtle way to put Texans down? Interest in the show was more intense in other locals than here where it was said to take place. I remember being at M.I.T. in Cambridge for a dinner the night that the episode in which the mystery surrounding the identity of who shot J.R. was aired. My husband and I were fascinated by the way the room filled with Nobel Prize winners and distinguished professors cleared out just fifteen minutes before “Dallas” the came on the air.
I wonder how Atlanta feels since the satirization of that city in A Man in Full by Tom Wolfe. In some disturbingly parallel ways, Dallas too has a larger-than-life image. Twenty years ago John Bainbridge called Texans “super-Americans,” with everything that is characterized as American taking on an even greater size in Texas. Is this hyperbolic image the one that people in other states are so eager to level? Previously I thought this urge was envy of wealth and disapproval of the luck of the gambling wildcatter. But today there is probably more accumulation of wealth in Silicon Valley. Perhaps due to our colorful history, Texas has always had a more individual and stronger identity than most other states. Since the city of Dallas suffered the death of John Kennedy, since we shared some of the down parts of recent economic cycles, and currently with oil at $14.00 a barrel, the eyes of the world may look more sympathetically upon us.
We Dallasites are often adamant in our self-proclamations. Yet, our reliance on materialistic values can distort our perceptions making it hard for us to recognize worth other than in terms of the dollar. We are aware of this effect when we have to make independent choices about artistic endeavors. We Dallasites have trouble appreciating our local architects, poets, or painters, and therefore we don’t provide a particularly fertile soil for their development. Generally, artists have to achieve recognition in other places before we acknowledge them in their own home town of Dallas. This may be a national problem. Do we make an effort to know our poets, writers, and artists other than those brought to our attention by the hype of the media? Perhaps when our young nation separated itself from its European values, we may have put the love of the cultural in our national shadow-bag.
Since we rely so heavily on our commercial success, we fear any indication that there may be a problem inherent to our economic structure. Not that anyone is expected to enjoy depression either personally or as part of a business cycle, but Americans have a special aversion to the their economically “down” periods. Hillman has this to say: “[A] society that does not allow individuals ‘to go down’ cannot find its depth and must remain permanently inflated in a manic mood disorder disguised as growth.”7 Our culture does seem to be increasingly manic–rush, rush, rush. For me, one of the most critical problems is the speeding up of time. All the supposed time-saving devices—faxes, e-mail, and cellular telephones—just make me feel that I should be doing business or problem solving twenty-four hours out of each day. We can no longer go to the country to get away. I’m wondering how we will have time to do the inner work that everyone needs to maintain a center that can endure. How can we develop the inner toughness to hold the tension of the opposites together when we are always in such a flap? We see some of the effects of undigested anger in the increasing intolerance for frustration as exemplified in the ever-increasing reports of “road rage.”
We seem to have developed an aversion to solitude, which has traditionally been regarded as the birthplace of creative genius. We can hardly enter our houses without flipping on the TV, that greater destroyer of silence and conversation. James Hollis claims that though we Americans regard independence as important to our national ideals, paradoxically we don’t practice the art of self sufficiency: “As obvious as this notion of independence is, and as desirable as we may profess it to be, most of life is a flight from the anxiety of being radically present to ourselves and naked before the universe. Culture, as we have contrived it, seems but a divertissement, whose purpose is the avoidance of solitude.”8 I remember being struck with the uniqueness of Rilke’s very un-American statement: “I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other.”9
With the world closing in upon our privacy with ever-greater intenstity, when are we allowing ourselves quiet time? In essence, how are we ever but slenderly to know ourselves when the active life so predominates?
Finally, I would like to return to Maynard Mack and Lear once again. Mack reminds us that it is not the final recapitulation of what we have accomplished in life that matters but what we have become, what Jung would describe as how far we have been able to individuate. Ultimately, this accomplishment, or lack of it, more accurately describes a human being than any economic evaluation. After all, both Lear and Cordelia die after leading a less than stellar life. Mack concludes: “If there is any ‘remorseless process’ in King Lear,it is one that begs us to seek the meaning of our human fate not in what becomes of us, but in what we become. Death, we saw, is miscellaneous and commonplace; it is life whose quality may be made noble, simple and distinctive. We all recoil from suffering, but we know it is a greater thing to suffer than to lack the feelings and virtues that make the experience of suffering possible. Cordelia, we may choose to say, accomplishes nothing, yet we know it is better to be a Cordelia than to be one of her sisters. When we come crying hither, we bring with us the badge of all our misery; but it is also the badge of the vulnerabilities that give us access to whatever grandeur we achieve”10
I would like to echo this sentiment. It is not the disparity between what we are and what we would like to be that matters. It is the grandeur that we can achieve knowing our lacunae.
1 Richard J. Finneran edited, The Poems of W.B. Yeats (New York: Macmillan Publishing Company, 1983) 95.
2 Ken Wilbur, “Taking Responsibility for Your Shadow,” 273.
3 Jeremiah Abrams and Connie Zweig edited, Meeting the Shadow The Hidden Power of the Dark Side of Human Nature (Los Angeles: Jeremy P. Tarcher, Inc., 1991) xvii.
4 Maynard Mack, King Lear in Our Time (Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California, 1972) 58.
5 James Hillman, Archetypal Psychology A Brief Account (Dallas: Spring Publications, Inc., 1983) 13.
6 Marie-Louise von Franz, Shadow and Evil in Fairy Tales (Switzerland: Spring Publications, 1974) 31.
7 Hillman 41.
8 James Hollis, Swamplands of the Soul New Life in Dismal Places (Toronto: Inner City Books, 1996) 11.
9 Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke On Love and Other Difficulties, trans. John J.L. Mood (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1975) 27.
10 Mack 117.
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