Black Books

What tension between the farthest heavens and the deepest hells!

The sevenfold darkness-the jubilant heaven’s gold-what a speech!

But I speak it. I talk, you don’t talk. You shouldn’t talk. I know that I must talk or rather stammer.

I wanted to sing the praise of the marvelous God who appeared to me, I wanted to talk of the bliss of paradise, of the deep stillness of the peace of God, of all blessed and most blessed and the highest raptures which trickled over me profusely by the mercy of that indescribable God-a praise I wanted to sing of the salvation of my heart-I wanted to give thanks to the glory of the thrice holy stellar one-but it is mere words and truly not these those words that are to be said.

There are many darker words, kindled in the darkest depths, utterly primordial words, pressed out of the unbelievably ancient and originary.

Words without meaning and purpose, pregnant with all futures, sick from primordial longings and impossibilities, quelled in the mud of the centuries, a mystery divined only by someone who has the animal behind him. A folly of impossibility, consequently swollen by creative power.

I suspect this.

There is no more to be said.

I have fear, an otherworldly fear, truly the fear of a meteorite that has fallen behind the Milky Way, no human fear, simply one occurring when nothing existed that might have known fear.

A fear that is not actual, so it seems.

Something that was never good and was always spoiled, as the source of a new health.

That’s one way to put it. I could also say: something that was too weak, as the source of the greatest force. I curse this measly stammering, this plantlike blind boring. However something trembles in me and this something wants to speak.

For it was something somewhere smelt and touched and something that threatens to come to life. ~Carl Jung, The Black Books, Vol. VII, Page 205-206