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Carl Jung Depth Psychology Facebook Group

2ce68 1pythia

The Black Books

“I am falling,” a voice said in me. “Where to? What do you want?” others shout.

I need to entrust myself to this vortex.

Torrents of doubt rush down on me. Should I entrust myself to this confusion? I shuddered.

It is a dreadful deep. Do you want this sacrifice from me?

To leave myself to chance, to the madness of my own semi-darkness, is that what you want from me? Whither? Whither?

If I have confidence in my soul, I must dare to do it.

How difficult it is to trust in yourself to the extent that you can quietly~ yourself down in an abyss!

You fall, and I want to fall with you, whoever you are.

I fall with you along gray rocks into whirling depths, pillars of steam shoot up, hissing and roaring noises-descent into hell.

I see a black cave, a leather dwarf protects the entrance-heaven help, what a torture.

The ground is black dirt up to my ankles. I hesitate to enter.

Shadows scurry alongside me- forwards-I am seized by fear, it is narrow and hot, or cold-I don’t know- inside- I crawl through a narrow crack in the rock-a bright-dark cave, the ground covered with black water, on the other shore a luminous red stone.

I wade knee-deep it is cold-to the stone. Do not stop me, you heckler.

It has to be, this needs to be conquered.

The stone of the torment, of the red light.

The light is cold, a crystal, I raise it, a dark hole underneath, what shall it be?

The cave reverberates with many human voices, but no one is here. I stand with the stone in my hand, peering around inquiringly-seeing only one-I do not want to listen to the voices, they keep me away.

This dark hole-I want to know where it leads and what it says? An oracle? Is this the place of Pythia?

You shall not keep me away!

Ancient and eternal things want to be uttered-be quiet with your yelling, ridiculous shadows, castaways of the upper world-the site of an oracle? Could it be?

Shall I place my ear to your opening?

I hear the far and near roaring of underground waters-the bloody head of a man on the dark stream, someone wounded, who swims in horrible depths.

He does not know-or is he numb-frozen in the icy cold in the posture of a swimmer-an immensely large black beetle floats past-like a scarab-from

he deepest reach a sun is radiating through the water-I cannot grasp it curled up serpents on the dark rock, striving toward the depths, where the sun shines duller.

A thousand serpents crowd around, veiling the sun-deep night the water rushes.

I stand exhausted, noise from a thousand voices is echoed from the walls of the cave. How noisy is this upper world.

Too much hustle that destroys the vision.

One more gaze into the depths-a red stream like blood springs up, like thick red blood, surging for a long time, then ebbing. ~Carl Jung, The Black Books, Vol. II, Page 168-169