The Red Book

The life of the solitary would be cold were it not for the immense sun,
which makes the air and rocks glow. The sun and its eternal splendor replace
for the solitary his own life warmth.
H is heart longs for the sun.
II e wanders to the lands of the sun.
He dreams of the }fickering splendor of the sun, of the hot red stones spread
out at midday, of the golden hot rays of dry sand. /
The solitary seeks the sun and no one else is so ready to open his heart as he is.
Therefore he loves the desert above all, since he loves its deep stillness.
He needs little food since the sun and its glow nourish him. Consequently
the solitary loves the desert above all since it is a mother to him, giving him
food and invigorating warmth at regular hours.
I n the desert the solitary is relieved of care and therefore turns his whole
life to the sprouting garden ofhis soul, which can jfourish only under a hot
sun. In his garden the delicious red fruit grows that bears swelling sweetness
under a tight skin.
You think that the solitary is poor. You do not see that he strolls under
laden fruit trees and that his hand touches grain a hundredfold. under dark
leaves the oveifull reddish blossoms swell toward him from abundant buds,
and the fruit almost bursts with thronging juices. Fragrant resins drip from
his trees and under his fiet thrusting seed breaks open.
If the sun sinks onto the plane of the sea like an exhausted bird, the solitary
envelops himself and holds his breath. He does not move and is pure expectancy
until the miracle of the renewal of light rises in the East.
Brimful delicious expectation is in the solitary. 51
The horror of the desert and of withered evaporation surround him, and
you do not understand how the solitary can live. /
But his eye rests on the garden, and his ears listen to the source, and his
hand touches velvet leaves and fruit, and his breath draws in sweet peifumes
from blossom~rich trees.
He cannot tell you, since the splendor of his garden is so abundant. He
stammers when he speaks of it, and he appears to you to be poor in spirit
and in life. But his hand does not know where it should reach, in all this
indescribable fullness.
He gives you a small inSignificant fruit, which has just fallen at his fiet.
I t appears worthless to you, but if you consider it, you will see that this fruit
tastes like a sun which you could not have dreamt of It gives off a peifume
which confuses your senses and makes you dream of rose gardens and sweet
wine and whispering palm trees. And you hold this one fruit in your hands
dreaming, and you would like the tree in which it grows, the garden in which
this tree stands, and the sun which brought forth this garden.
And you yourself want to be that solitary who strolls with the sun in his
garden, his gaze resting on pendant jfowers and his hand brushing a hundred~
fold of grain and his breath drinking the peifume from a thousand roses.
Dullfrom the sun and drunk from firmenting wines, you lie down in
ancient graves, whose walls resound with many voices and many colors of a
thousand solar years.
When you grow, then you see everything living again as it was. And /
when you sleep, you rest, like everything that was, and your dreams echo
softly again from distant temple chants.
You sleep down through the thousand solar years, and you wake up
through the thousand solar years, and your dreams full of ancient lore adorn

the walls of your bedchamber.
You also see yourself in the totality. ~Carl Jung, The Red Book, Pages 269-270