Black Books

My soul, should I call you? No, no more hope, no illusion.

The terror must be naked, just as helpless as I.

This time there are no crutches.

We now plunge the rod into the bottomless, behind all possibilities, perhaps in a dullness without end, where the eternal quagmire no longer permits return.

Yes, it grows hotter here-perhaps no more return-that is the right word-perhaps a bottomless abyss, a silence, a wordless solitude for the rest of one’s life.

I know where my life has gone-and there in front stands the metal wall.

My ears are dull, my heart is frozen stiff, therefore I speak hastily, to feign the life that I don’t possess.

It seems to become heavy-metallically heavy-the wheel.

I’d like to cry out, to keep from turning into metal.

Oh-how did it come? that I became ore?

A soundless ore, only heavy and tough, probably lead. In truth the ore has no ears and what speaks there is mere deception.

For once I can’t feel fear, only rigidity and cold. ~Carl Jung, The Black Books, Vol. VII, Page 204-205