I Live In My Deepest Hell And

How Else Could It Have Occurred To Man To Divide The Cosmos, On The Analogy Of Day And Night, Summer And Winter, Into A Bright Day-world And A Dark Night-world Peopled With Fabulous Monsters, Unless He Had The Prototype Of Such A Division In Himself, In The Polarity Between The Conscious And The Invisible And Unknowable Unconscious?

Becoming Conscious Is Of Course A Sacrilege Against Nature; It Is As Though You Had Robbed The Unconscious Of Something.

I Believe That We Have No Real Access To Who We Really Are Except In God. Only When We Rest In God Can We Find The Safety, The Spaciousness, And The Scary Freedom To Be Who We Are, All That We Are, More Than We Are, And Less Than We Are.

The Sight Of A Child…will Arouse Certain Longings In Adult, Civilized Persons — Longings Which Relate To The Unfulfilled Desires And Needs Of Those Parts Of The Personality Which Have Been Blotted Out Of The Total Picture In Favor Of The Adapted Persona.

I Know Every Numbskull Will Babble On About "black Man," "maneater," "chance," And "retrospective Interpretation," In Order To Banish Something Terribly Inconvenient That Might Sully The Familiar Picture Of Childhood Innocence. Ah, These Good, Efficient, Healthy-minded People, They Always Remind Me Of Those Optimistic Tadpoles Who Bask In A Puddle In The Sun, In The Shallowest Of Waters, Crowding Together And Amiably Wriggling Their Tails, Totally Unaware That The Next Morning The Puddle Will Have Dried Up And Left Them Stranded.