Carl Jung on Introverts

Hello brothers and sisters, and thank you for sharing your journey with me. In this video, I will mediate Jung’s understanding of the introverted person, and the four introverted functions; thinking and feeling,which are the rational opposites, and the irrational pair - sensing and intuition. All of Jung’s text is taken from chapter 10, “General Description of the Types“, in Jung’s collected works, volume 6. Jung would read his own words, as I've created a voice based on the materials I’ve restored of him, mainly his 1957 interview, which is available on the channel.The reproduction of Jung’s voice, of course,

isn’t perfect, but it's pretty close and it has the effect I was imagining. After each segment I will add my simplification, with the goal of mediating Jung's complex writing in mind. I hope you’ll enjoy this production and find meaningful self-knowledge for your individual path, toward higher levels of health, balance, and the courage to be who you are, and who you were meant to be. The introvert is distinguished from the extravert by the fact that he doesn’t orient himself by the object and by objective data, but by subjective factors. The introvert interposes a subjective view between

the perception of the object and his own action, which prevents the action from assuming a character that fits the objective situation. Although the introverted consciousness is naturally aware of external conditions, it selects the subjective determinants as the decisive ones. It is therefore oriented by the factor in perception and cognition which responds to the sense stimulus in accordance with the individual’s subjective disposition. We must not forget—although the extravert is only too prone to do so—that perception and cognition are not purely objective, but are also subjectively conditioned. The world exists not merely in itself, but also as

it appears to me. By overvaluing our capacity for objective cognition, we repress the importance of the subjective factor, which simply means a denial of the subject. But what is the subject? The subject is man himself—we are the subject. Only a sick mind could forget that cognition must have a subject, and that there is no knowledge whatever and therefore no world at all unless “I know” has been said, though with this statement one has already expressed the subjective limitation of all knowledge. This applies to all the psychic functions: they have a subject which is just as

indispensable as the object. It is characteristic of our present extraverted sense of values that the word “subjective” usually sounds like a reproof; at all events the epithet “merely subjective” is brandished like a weapon over the head of anyone who is not boundlessly convinced of the absolute superiority of the object. The subjective factor is as ineluctable a datum as the extent of the sea and the radius of the earth. By the same token, the subjective factor has all the value of a co-determinant of the world we live in, a factor that can on no account be

left out of our calculations. It is another universal law, and whoever bases himself on it has a foundation as secure, as permanent, and as valid as the man who relies on the object. The introverted attitude is normally oriented by the psychic structure, which is in principle hereditary and is in-born in the subject. This must not be assumed, however, to be simply identical with the subject’s ego, it is rather the psychic structure of the subject prior to any ego-development. The really fundamental subject, the self, is far more comprehensive than the ego, since the former includes the

unconscious whereas the latter is essentially the focal point of consciousness. But it is a characteristic peculiarity of the introvert, which is as much in keeping with his own inclination as with the general bias, to confuse his ego with the self, and to exalt it as the subject of the psychic process, thus bringing about the subjectivization of consciousness which alienates him from the object. Just as it seems incomprehensible to the introvert that the object should always be the decisive factor, it remains an enigma to the extravert how a subjective standpoint can be superior to the objective

situation. He inevitably comes to the conclusion that the introvert is either a conceited egoist or crack-brained bigot. Today he would be suspected of harbouring an unconscious power-complex. The introvert certainly lays himself open to these suspicions, for his positive, highly generalizing manner of expression, which appears to rule out every other opinion from the start, lends countenance to all the extravert’s prejudices. Moreover, the inflexibility of his subjective judgment, setting itself above all objective data, is sufficient in itself to create the impression of marked egocentricity. Faced with this prejudice the introvert is usually at a loss for the

right argument, for he is quite unaware of the unconscious but generally quite valid assumptions on which his subjective judgment and his subjective perceptions are based. In the fashion of the times, he looks outside for an answer, instead of seeking it behind his own consciousness. Should he become neurotic, it is the sign of an almost complete identity of the ego with the self; the importance of the self is reduced to nil, while the ego is inflated beyond measure. The whole world-creating force of the subjective factor becomes concentrated in the ego, producing a boundless power-complex and a

fatuous egocentricity. Every psychology which reduces the essence of man to the unconscious power drive springs from this kind of disposition. Many of Nietzsche’s lapses in taste, for example, are due to this subjectivization of consciousness. Jung's passage distinguishes between two fundamental ways people orient themselves toward life: extraversion and introversion. Extraverts prioritize the external world—facts, objects, and observable reality—whereas introverts prioritize their internal, subjective world—thoughts, feelings, and personal impressions. Jung highlights that the introverted perspective relies on subjective factors to interpret reality, meaning that what is perceived is always filtered through the individual's own psyche. For introverts, these internal

impressions often guide their actions more strongly than external circumstances. This doesn't mean they ignore the outer world; rather, they interpret it through the lens of their inner understanding. However, Jung reminds us that both extraverts and introverts are shaped by subjective factors. No one can perceive the world completely objectively because our knowledge always depends on our personal perspective. When we overvalue objectivity and dismiss the subjective, we risk ignoring the essential role of the individual—the "I" who perceives, feels, and thinks. This subjective factor, Jung argues, is as real and necessary as the objective world. It's not "lesser"

or "merely subjective," as some might say. Both the external world and the internal world are co-creators of our reality. Just as the laws of physics describe the objective world, the subjective laws of the psyche govern our internal reality. For introverts, these inner laws often hold greater weight. Jung also points out a common misunderstanding: introverts sometimes confuse their ego—the conscious "I"—with the larger self, which includes both the conscious and unconscious aspects of the psyche. This can lead to an over-identification with their inner world and an alienation from external reality. If this imbalance becomes extreme, it can

result in an inflated ego, where the introvert’s sense of self grows disconnected from reality, manifesting as arrogance or a power complex. In essence, Jung is advocating for balance. He acknowledges the value of both objective reality and subjective interpretation. Each has its place, and neither should dominate the other. The extravert may struggle to understand why subjective experience matters, just as the introvert might resist prioritizing external facts. By understanding these tendencies, we can develop greater empathy for ourselves and others, recognizing the complementary roles that subjective and objective realities play in shaping our lives. The predominance of the

subjective factor in consciousness naturally involves a devaluation of the object. The object is not given the importance that belongs to it by right. Just as it plays too great a role in the extraverted attitude, it has too little meaning for the introvert. To the extent that his consciousness is subjectivized and excessive importance attached to the ego, the object is put in a position which in the end becomes untenable. The object is a factor whose power cannot be denied, whereas the ego is a very limited and fragile thing. It would be a very different matter if

the self opposed the object. Self and world are commensurable factors; hence a normal introverted attitude is as justifiable and valid as a normal extraverted attitude. But if the ego has usurped the claims of the subject, this naturally produces, by way of compensation, an unconscious reinforcement of the influence of the object. In spite of positively convulsive efforts to ensure the superiority of the ego, the object comes to exert an overwhelming influence, (compulsivity), which is all the more invincible because it seizes on the individual unawares and forcibly obtrudes itself on his consciousness. As a result of the

ego’s unadapted relation to the object—for a desire to dominate it is not adaptation—a compensatory relation arises in the unconscious which makes itself felt as an absolute and irrepressible tie to the object. The more the ego struggles to preserve its independence, freedom from obligation, and superiority, the more it becomes enslaved to the objective data. The individual’s freedom of mind is fettered by the ignominy of his financial dependence, his freedom of action trembles in the face of public opinion, his moral superiority collapses in a morass of inferior relationships, and his desire to dominate ends in a pitiful

craving to be loved. It is now the unconscious that takes care of the relation to the object, and it does so in a way that is calculated to bring the illusion of power and the fantasy of superiority to utter ruin. (humbling of the ego by the self) The object assumes terrifying proportions in spite of the conscious attempt to degrade it. In consequence, the ego’s efforts to detach itself from the object and get it under control become all the more violent. In the end it surrounds itself with a regular system of defences (aptly described by Adler)

for the purpose of preserving at least the illusion of superiority. The introvert’s alienation from the object is now complete; he wears himself out with defense measures on the one hand, while on the other he makes fruitless attempts to impose his will on the object and assert himself. These efforts are constantly being frustrated by the overwhelming impressions received from the object. It continually imposes itself on him against his will, it arouses in him the most disagreeable and intractable affects and persecutes him at every step. A tremendous inner struggle is needed all the time in order to

“keep going.” The typical form his neurosis takes is psychasthenia, a malady characterized on the one hand by extreme sensitivity and on the other by great proneness to exhaustion and chronic fatigue. An analysis of the personal unconscious reveals a mass of power fantasies coupled with fear of objects which he himself has forcibly activated, and of which he is often enough the victim. His fear of objects develops into a peculiar kind of cowardliness; he shrinks from making himself or his opinions felt, fearing that this will only increase the object’s power. He is terrified of strong affects in

others, and is hardly ever free from the dread of falling under hostile influences. Objects possess puissant and terrifying qualities for him—qualities he cannot consciously discern in them, but which he imagines he sees through his unconscious perception. As his relation to the object is very largely repressed, it takes place via the unconscious, where it becomes charged with the latter’s qualities. These qualities are mostly infantile and archaic, so that the relation to the object becomes primitive too, and the object seems endowed with magical powers. Anything strange and new arouses fear and mistrust, as though concealing unknown perils;

heirlooms and suchlike are attached to his soul as by invisible threads; any change is upsetting, if not positively dangerous, as it seems to denote a magical animation of the object. His ideal is a lonely island where nothing moves except what he permits to move. Jung’s exploration of The Attitude of the Unconscious builds on his discussion of introversion, explaining how the introvert’s focus on their subjective world can lead to significant psychological consequences if the balance between the ego, the object, and the unconscious is lost. To begin, Jung highlights that introverts often devalue the external world—the object—because

their primary focus is inward. While this inward focus can be a strength, it becomes problematic if the ego—the conscious sense of "I"—inflates itself and takes the place of the larger self. The self, unlike the ego, is connected to both the conscious and unconscious aspects of the psyche, giving it the strength to balance the external world. However, when the ego becomes dominant, it tries to control or ignore the object (the external world), which ultimately leads to failure. The reason? The object, representing reality, cannot simply be dismissed. Its power is undeniable, and the more the ego tries

to dominate it, the more the unconscious compensates for this imbalance. This compensation from the unconscious manifests in unexpected ways. Instead of gaining freedom and control, the introvert finds themselves increasingly tied to the object in a negative, compulsive manner. For instance, they might feel trapped by external circumstances like financial obligations, societal expectations, or unhealthy relationships. The harder the ego struggles for independence and superiority, the more enslaved it becomes, as if the object is fighting back. Eventually, the unconscious humbles the ego through a series of difficult experiences, forcing the individual to confront their illusions of control and

superiority. This often results in exhaustion, inner conflict, and feelings of being overwhelmed by the external world. At its extreme, this imbalance can lead to a neurosis known as psychasthenia—a state of heightened sensitivity, chronic fatigue, and a fear of external influences. Jung explains that this fear arises because the introvert projects their unconscious fantasies onto the object. Repressed feelings and unresolved conflicts are pushed into the unconscious, where they take on a primitive, almost magical quality. The external world then becomes frightening and unpredictable, filled with imagined threats and overwhelming power. New experiences feel dangerous, change is seen as

threatening, and the introvert may retreat into a defensive, rigid isolation, longing for a static, controlled environment where nothing can disturb their fragile sense of stability. In summary, Jung is warning us about the dangers of losing balance between the ego, the self, and the external world. When the ego inflates itself and dismisses the importance of the object, the unconscious compensates in ways that can feel overpowering and even destructive. The key is to acknowledge the equal importance of both the subjective inner world and the objective outer world, allowing the self—not the ego—to mediate the relationship between them.

By doing so, the introvert can avoid becoming trapped in fear, exhaustion, and alienation, and instead, find a healthier, more grounded way to engage with life. Introverted thinking is primarily oriented by the subjective factor. At the very least the subjective factor expresses itself as a feeling of guidance which ultimately determines judgment. Sometimes it appears as a more or less complete image which serves as a criterion. But whether introverted thinking is concerned with concrete or with abstract objects, always at the decisive points it is oriented by subjective data. It does not lead from concrete experience back again

to the object, but always to the subjective content. External facts are not the aim and origin of this thinking, though the introvert would often like to make his thinking appear so. It begins with the subject and leads back to the subject, far though it may range into the realm of actual reality. With regard to the establishment of new facts it is only indirectly of value, since new views rather than knowledge of new facts are its main concern. It formulates questions and creates theories, it opens up new prospects and insights, but with regard to facts its

attitude is one of reserve. They are all very well as illustrative examples, but they must not be allowed to predominate. Facts are collected as evidence for a theory, never for their own sake. If ever this happens, it is merely a concession to the extraverted style. Facts are of secondary importance for this kind of thinking; what seems to it of paramount importance is the development and presentation of the subjective idea, of the initial symbolic image hovering darkly before the mind’s eye. Its aim is never an intellectual reconstruction of the concrete fact, but a shaping of that

dark image into a luminous idea. It wants to reach reality, to see how the external fact will fit into and fill the framework of the idea, and the creative power of this thinking shows itself when it actually creates an idea which, though not inherent in the concrete fact, is yet the most suitable abstract expression of it. Its task is completed when the idea it has fashioned seems to emerge so inevitably from the external facts that they actually prove its validity. Introverted thinking shows a dangerous tendency to force the facts into the shape of its image,

or to ignore them altogether in order to give fantasy free play. In that event it will be impossible for the finished product—the idea—to repudiate its derivation from the dim archaic image. It will have a mythological streak which one is apt to interpret as “originality” or, in more pronounced cases, as mere whimsicality, since its archaic character is not immediately apparent to specialists unfamiliar with mythological motifs. The subjective power of conviction exerted by an idea of this kind is usually very great, and it is all the greater the less it comes into contact with external facts. Although

it may seem to the originator of the idea that his meagre store of facts is the actual source of its truth and validity, in reality this is not so, for the idea derives its convincing power from the unconscious archetype, which, as such, is eternally valid and true. But this truth is so universal and so symbolic that it must first be assimilated to the recognized and recognizable knowledge of the time before it can become a practical truth of any value for life. This kind of thinking easily gets lost in the immense truth of the subjective factor.

It creates theories for their own sake, apparently with an eye to real or at least possible facts, but always with a distinct tendency to slip over from the world of ideas into mere imagery. Accordingly, visions of numerous possibilities appear on the scene, but none of them ever becomes a reality, until finally images are produced which no longer express anything externally real, being mere symbols of the ineffable and unknowable. It is now merely a mystical thinking and quite as unfruitful as thinking that remains bound to objective data. Whereas the latter sinks to the level of a

mere representation of facts, the former evaporates into a representation of the irrepresentable, far beyond anything that could be expressed in an image. The representation of facts has an incontestable truth because the subjective factor is excluded and the facts speak for themselves. Similarly, the representation of the irrepresentable has an immediate, subjective power of conviction because it demonstrates its own existence. The one says “Est, ergo est”; the other says “Cogito, ergo cogito.” Introverted thinking carried to extremes arrives at the evidence of its own subjective existence, and extraverted thinking at the evidence of its complete identity with the

objective fact. Just as the latter abnegates itself by evaporating into the object, the former empties itself of each and every content and has to be satisfied with merely existing. In both cases the further development of life is crowded out of the thinking function into the domain of the other psychic functions, which till then had existed in a state of relative unconsciousness. The extraordinary impoverishment of introverted thinking is compensated by a wealth of unconscious facts. The more consciousness is impelled by the thinking function to confine itself within the smallest and emptiest circle—which seems, however, to contain

all the riches of the gods—the more the unconscious fantasies will be enriched by a multitude of archaic contents, a veritable “pandaemonium” of irrational and magical figures, whose physiognomy will accord with the nature of the function that will supersede the thinking function as the vehicle of life. If it should be the intuitive function, then the “other side” will be viewed through the eyes of a Kubin or a Meyrink. If it is the feeling function, then quite unheard-of and fantastic feeling relationships will be formed, coupled with contradictory and unintelligible value judgments. If it is the sensation function,

the senses will nose up something new, and never experienced before, in and outside the body. Closer examination of these permutations will easily demonstrate a recrudescence of primitive psychology with all its characteristic features. Naturally, such experiences are not merely primitive, they are also symbolic; in fact, the more primordial and aboriginal they are, the more they represent a future truth. For everything old in the unconscious hints at something coming. Just as we might take Darwin as an example of the normal extraverted thinking type, the normal introverted thinking type could be represented by Kant. The one speaks with

facts, the other relies on the subjective factor. Darwin ranges over the wide field of objective reality. Kant restricts himself to a critique of knowledge. Cuvier and Nietzsche would form an even sharper contrast. The introverted thinking type is characterized by the primacy of the kind of thinking I have just described. Like his extraverted counterpart, he is strongly influenced by ideas, though his ideas have their origin not in objective data but in his subjective foundation. He will follow his ideas like the extravert, but in the reverse direction: inwards and not outwards. This negative relation to the object,

ranging from indifference to aversion, characterizes every introvert and makes a description of the type exceedingly difficult. Everything about him tends to disappear and get concealed. His judgment appears cold, inflexible, arbitrary, and ruthless, because it relates far less to the object than to the subject. One can feel nothing in it that might possibly confer a higher value on the object; it always bypasses the object and leaves one with a feeling of the subject’s superiority. He may be polite, amiable, and kind, but one is constantly aware of a certain uneasiness betraying an ulterior motive—the disarming of an

opponent, who must at all costs be pacified and placated lest he prove himself a nuisance. In no sense, of course, is he an opponent, but if he is at all sensitive, he will feel himself repulsed, and even belittled. Invariably the object has to submit to a certain amount of neglect, and in pathological cases it is even surrounded with quite unnecessary precautionary measures. Thus, this type tends to vanish behind a cloud of misunderstanding, which gets all the thicker the more he attempts to assume, by way of compensation and with the help of his inferior functions, an

air of urbanity which contrasts glaringly with his real nature. Although he will shrink from no danger in building up his world of ideas, and never shrinks from thinking a thought because it might prove to be dangerous, subversive, heretical, or wounding to other people’s feelings, he is none the less beset by the greatest anxiety if ever he has to make it an objective reality. That goes against the grain. And when he does put his ideas into the world, he never introduces them like a mother solicitous for her children, but simply dumps them there and gets extremely

annoyed if they fail to thrive on their own account. His amazing unpracticalness and horror of publicity in any form have a hand in this. If in his eyes his product appears correct and true, then it must be so in practice, and others have got to bow to its truth. Hardly ever will he go out of his way to win anyone’s appreciation of it, especially anyone of influence. And if ever he brings himself to do so, he generally sets about it so clumsily that it has just the opposite of the effect intended. He usually has bad

experiences with rivals in his own field because he never understands how to curry their favour; as a rule, he only succeeds in showing them how entirely superfluous they are to him. In the pursuit of his ideas, he is generally stubborn, headstrong, and quite unamenable to influence. His suggestibility to personal influences is in strange contrast to this. He has only to be convinced of a person’s seeming innocuousness to lay himself open to the most undesirable elements. They seize hold of him from the unconscious. He lets himself be brutalized and exploited in the most ignominious way if

only he can be left in peace to pursue his ideas. He simply does not see when he is being plundered behind his back and wronged in practice, for to him the relation to people and things is secondary and the objective evaluation of his product is something he remains unconscious of. Because he thinks out his problems to the limit, he complicates them and constantly gets entangled in his own scruples and misgivings. However clear to him the inner structure of his thoughts may be, he is not in the least clear where or how they link up with

the world of reality. Only with the greatest difficulty will he bring himself to admit that what is clear to him may not be equally clear to everyone. His style is cluttered with all sorts of adjuncts, accessories, qualifications, retractions, saving clauses, doubts, etc., which all come from his scrupulosity. His work goes slowly and with difficulty. In his personal relations he is taciturn or else throws himself on people who cannot understand him, and for him this is one more proof of the abysmal stupidity of man. If for once he is understood, he easily succumbs to credulous overestimation

of his prowess. Ambitious women have only to know how to take advantage of his cluelessness in practical matters to make an easy prey of him; or he may develop into a misanthropic bachelor with a childlike heart. But the better one knows him, the more favourable one’s judgment becomes, and his closest friends value his intimacy very highly. To outsiders he seems prickly, unapproachable, and arrogant, and sometimes soured as a result of his anti-social prejudices. With the intensification of his type, his convictions become all the more rigid and unbending. Outside influences are shut off; as a person,

too, he becomes more unsympathetic to his wider circle of acquaintances, and therefore more dependent on his intimates. His tone becomes personal and surly, and though his ideas may gain in profundity they can no longer be adequately expressed in the material at hand. To compensate for this, he falls back on emotionality and touchiness. The outside influences he has brusquely fended off attack him from within, from the unconscious, and in his efforts to defend himself he attacks things that to outsiders seem utterly unimportant. Because of the subjectivization of consciousness resulting from his lack of relationship to the

object, what secretly concerns his own person now seems to him of extreme importance. He begins to confuse his subjective truth with his own personality. Although he will not try to press his convictions on anyone personally, he will burst out with vicious, personal retorts against every criticism, however just. Thus, his isolation gradually increases. His originally fertilizing ideas become destructive, poisoned by the sediment of bitterness. His struggle against the influences emanating from the unconscious increases with his external isolation, until finally they begin to cripple him. He thinks his withdrawal into ever-increasing solitude will protect him from the

unconscious influences, but as a rule it only plunges him deeper into the conflict that is destroying him from within. The thinking of the introverted type is positive and synthetic in developing ideas which approximate more and more to the eternal validity of the primordial images. But as their connection with objective experience becomes more and more tenuous, they take on a mythological colouring and no longer hold true for the contemporary situation. Hence his thinking is of value for his contemporaries only so long as it is manifestly and intelligibly related to the known facts of the time. Once

it has become mythological, it ceases to be relevant and runs on in itself. The counterbalancing functions of feeling, intuition, and sensation are comparatively unconscious and inferior, and therefore have a primitive extraverted character that accounts for all the troublesome influences from outside to which the introverted thinker is prone. The various protective devices and psychological minefields which such people surround themselves with are known to everyone, and I can spare myself a description of them. They all serve as a defense against “magical” influences—and among them is a vague fear of the feminine sex. What Jung is describing here

is the way an introverted thinker operates and how their inner world shapes their perception of reality. Introverted thinking is guided by internal, subjective impressions rather than external facts. Imagine it as a process that begins and ends inside the mind. While this type of thinker may engage with the outside world, they use it mainly to support their inner ideas rather than letting external facts dictate their conclusions. They’re less interested in uncovering new facts and more focused on forming new theories or perspectives. For this type, facts are like pieces of a puzzle—but the shape of the puzzle

is determined by their inner vision, the “dark image” Jung refers to. Their goal is to take these scattered pieces and shape them into a coherent, luminous idea that feels inevitable and true. However, because this process is so internally driven, there’s always a risk of bending reality to fit the idea, or ignoring facts that don’t align with their inner vision. This can lead to a disconnect from practical reality. Jung also warns of an extreme: introverted thinking can become so consumed by its own inner logic that it detaches entirely from the external world. At this point, it

may generate ideas that are imaginative, symbolic, or even mystical—but lack any practical relevance or connection to reality. Now, when Jung talks about the “introverted thinking type,” he’s describing people whose whole personality is shaped by this inner way of thinking. Think of someone like the philosopher Immanuel Kant, who worked tirelessly to create a system of ideas built on subjective principles. These individuals are often independent thinkers, unafraid to tackle big, abstract questions. But they can also seem distant, inflexible, or overly critical because their focus is directed inward, not on relationships or external matters. Socially, introverted thinkers can

be hard to approach. They may come across as aloof, cold, or even dismissive, especially if their ideas are misunderstood. They struggle to communicate their inner vision clearly and may become isolated as a result. When they do share their ideas, it’s often without much concern for how others will receive them—they simply present their work and expect it to stand on its own. Jung points out that when introverted thinking becomes extreme, the person may withdraw further into their inner world, leading to isolation and serious inner conflict. This withdrawal doesn’t protect them from outside influences—it amplifies the unconscious

pressures they were trying to escape. Their ideas, though profound, risk becoming irrelevant because they lose touch with the realities of the time. Ultimately, Jung sees introverted thinking as valuable when it bridges the subjective and the objective—when it brings deep insights to bear on the world in a way that’s understandable and meaningful. But when it detaches too much from reality, it can lead to frustration, misunderstanding, and inner turmoil. Introverted feeling is determined principally by the subjective factor. It differs quite as essentially from extraverted feeling as introverted from extraverted thinking. It is extremely difficult to give an

intellectual account of the introverted feeling process, or even an approximate description of it, although the peculiar nature of this kind of feeling is very noticeable once one has become aware of it. Since it is conditioned subjectively and is only secondarily concerned with the object, it seldom appears on the surface and is generally misunderstood. It is a feeling which seems to devalue the object, and it therefore manifests itself for the most part negatively. The existence of positive feeling can be inferred only indirectly. Its aim is not to adjust itself to the object, but to subordinate it

in an unconscious effort to realize the underlying images. It is continually seeking an image which has no existence in reality, but which it has seen in a kind of vision. It glides unheedingly over all objects that do not fit in with its aim. It strives after inner intensity, for which the objects serve at most as a stimulus. The depth of this feeling can only be guessed—it can never be clearly grasped. It makes people silent and difficult of access; it shrinks back like a violet from the brute nature of the object in order to fill the

depths of the subject. It comes out with negative judgments or assumes an air of profound indifference as a means of defense. The primordial images are, of course, just as much ideas as feelings. Fundamental ideas, ideas like God, freedom, and immortality, are just as much feeling-values as they are significant ideas. Everything, therefore, that we have said about introverted thinking is equally true of introverted feeling, only here everything is felt while there it was thought. But the very fact that thoughts can generally be expressed more intelligibly than feelings demands a more than ordinary descriptive or artistic ability

before the real wealth of this feeling can be even approximately presented or communicated to the world. If subjective thinking can be understood only with difficulty because of its unrelatedness, this is true in even higher degree of subjective feeling. In order to communicate with others, it has to find an external form not only acceptable to itself, but capable also of arousing a parallel feeling in them. Thanks to the relatively great inner (as well as outer) uniformity of human beings, it is actually possible to do this, though the form acceptable to feeling is extraordinarily difficult to find

so long as it is still mainly oriented to the fathomless store of primordial images. If, however, feeling is falsified by an egocentric attitude, it at once becomes unsympathetic, because it is then concerned mainly with the ego. It inevitably creates the impression of sentimental self-love, of trying to make itself interesting, and even of morbid self-admiration. Just as the subjectivized consciousness of the introverted thinker, striving after abstractio, only succeeds in intensifying a thought-process that is in itself empty, the intensification of egocentric feeling only leads to inane transports of feeling for their own sake. This is the mystical,

ecstatic stage which opens the way for the extraverted functions that feeling has repressed. Just as introverted thinking is counterbalanced by a primitive feeling, to which objects attach themselves with magical force, introverted feeling is counterbalanced by a primitive thinking, whose concretism and slavery to facts surpass all bounds. Feeling progressively emancipates itself from the object and creates for itself a freedom of action and conscience that is purely subjective, and may even renounce all traditional values. But so much the more does unconscious thinking fall a victim to the power of objective reality. It is principally among women that

I have found the predominance of introverted feeling. “Still waters run deep” is very true of such women. They are mostly silent, inaccessible, hard to understand; often they hide behind a childish or banal mask, and their temperament is inclined to melancholy. They neither shine nor reveal themselves. As they are mainly guided by their subjective feelings, their true motives generally remain hidden. Their outward demeanour is harmonious, inconspicuous, giving an impression of pleasing repose, or of sympathetic response, with no desire to affect others, to impress, influence, or change them in any way. If this outward aspect is more

pronounced, it arouses a suspicion of indifference and coldness, which may actually turn into a disregard for the comfort and well-being of others. One is distinctly aware then of the movement of feeling away from the object. With the normal type, however, this happens only when the influence of the object is too strong. The feeling of harmony, therefore, lasts only so long as the object goes its own moderate way and makes no attempt to cross the other’s path. There is little effort to respond to the real emotions of the other person; they are more often damped down

and rebuffed, or cooled off by a negative value judgment. Although there is a constant readiness for peaceful and harmonious co-existence, strangers are shown no touch of amiability, no gleam of responsive warmth, but are met with apparent indifference or a repelling coldness. Often, they are made to feel entirely superfluous. Faced with anything that might carry her away or arouse enthusiasm, this type observes a benevolent though critical neutrality, coupled with a faint trace of superiority that soon takes the wind out of the sails of a sensitive person. Any stormy emotion, however, will be struck down with murderous

coldness, unless it happens to catch the woman on her unconscious side—that is, unless it hits her feelings by arousing a primordial image. In that case she simply feels paralyzed for the moment, and this in due course invariably produces an even more obstinate resistance which will hit the other person in his most vulnerable spot. As far as possible, the feeling relationship is kept to the safe middle path, all intemperate passions being resolutely tabooed. Expressions of feeling therefore remain niggardly, and the other person has a permanent sense of being under-valued once he becomes conscious of it. But

this need not always be so, because very often he remains unconscious of the lack of feeling shown to him, in which case the unconscious demands of feeling will produce symptoms designed to compel attention. Since this type appears rather cold and reserved, it might seem on a superficial view that such women have no feelings at all. But this would be quite wrong; the truth is, their feelings are intensive rather than extensive. They develop in depth. While an extensive feeling of sympathy can express itself in appropriate words and deeds, and thus quickly gets back to normal again,

an intensive sympathy, being shut off from every means of expression, acquires a passionate depth that comprises a whole world of misery and simply gets benumbed. It may perhaps break out in some extravagant form and lead to an astounding act of an almost heroic character, quite unrelated either to the subject herself or to the object that provoked the outburst. To the outside world, or to the blind eyes of the extravert, this intensive sympathy looks like coldness, because usually it does nothing visible, and an extraverted consciousness is unable to believe in invisible forces. Such a misunderstanding is

a common occurrence in the life of this type, and is used as a weighty argument against the possibility of any deeper feeling relation with the object. But the real object of this feeling is only dimly divined by the normal type herself. It may express itself in a secret religiosity anxiously guarded from profane eyes, or in intimate poetic forms that are kept equally well hidden, not without the secret ambition of displaying some kind of superiority over the other person by this means. Women often express a good deal of their feelings through their children, letting their passion

flow secretly into them. What Jung is describing here is a psychological process that is deeply inward and personal—what he calls "introverted feeling." This type of feeling is not outwardly expressed or concerned with adjusting to the external world. Instead, it is focused on inner truths and images, those profound and often unconscious impressions that guide a person’s sense of meaning and value. If we think of extraverted feeling as outward and social—seeking to create harmony or connection with others—introverted feeling does almost the opposite. It looks inward, prioritizing inner experiences and values over external validation or approval. Because of

this, people with strong introverted feeling often seem reserved, detached, or indifferent to others. But this isn’t due to a lack of feeling; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. Their feelings are so deep and personal that they are hard to express or even put into words. Jung also points out that this inward focus can make introverted feeling types seem cold or unresponsive on the surface, especially in situations where strong emotions are present. But underneath, there is an incredible depth of emotion, often tied to a vision or ideal that is deeply meaningful to them. This "vision" is

something they are always seeking, even if they can’t fully explain it themselves. Their feelings are more like a hidden river—quiet and unseen, but powerful and transformative. Jung warns, though, that if this feeling becomes too self-focused—too wrapped up in the ego—it can distort into something unhelpful, like self-absorption or sentimentality. In such cases, the person may seem to be indulging in their own emotions for their own sake, disconnected from the world around them. Balance is crucial. These individuals often prioritize inner harmony and may avoid emotional intensity in relationships. However, their feelings run deep and can emerge in

surprising ways, through creative work, acts of passion, or intense loyalty to their personal values. In essence, introverted feeling is a kind of quiet strength. It prioritizes the unseen, the inner world of emotions and archetypal images, over the outer world of social expectations. It reminds us that not all feelings need to be expressed outwardly to be powerful. Some of the deepest emotions are the ones we carry within, guiding us in ways we—and others—might not immediately see. The introvert is far more subject to misunderstanding than the extravert, not so much because the extravert is a more merciless

or critical adversary than he himself might be, but because the style of the times which he himself imitates works against him. He finds himself in the minority, not in numerical relation to the extravert, but in relation to the general Western view of the world as judged by his feeling. In so far as he is a convinced participator in the general style, he undermines his own foundations; for the general style, acknowledging as it does only the visible and tangible values, is opposed to his specific principle. Because of its invisibility, he is obliged to depreciate the subjective

factor, and must force himself to join in the extraverted overvaluation of the object. He himself sets the subjective factor at too low a value, and his feelings of inferiority are his chastisement for this sin. Little wonder, therefore, that it is precisely in the present epoch, and particularly in those movements which are somewhat ahead of the time, that the subjective factor reveals itself in exaggerated, tasteless forms of expression bordering on caricature. I refer to the art of the present day. The undervaluation of his own principle makes the introvert egotistical and forces on him the psychology of

the under-dog. The more egotistical he becomes, the more it seems to him that the others, who are apparently able, without qualms, to conform to the general style, are the oppressors against whom he must defend himself. He generally does not see that his chief error lies in not depending on the subjective factor with the same trust and devotion with which the extravert relies on the object. His undervaluation of his own principle makes his leanings towards egotism unavoidable, and because of this he fully deserves the censure of the extravert. If he remained true to his own principle,

the charge of egotism would be altogether false, for his attitude would be justified by its effects in general, and the misunderstanding would be dissipated. Introverts often feel misunderstood, not because extroverts are particularly harsh or critical, but because the world we live in values external, visible, and tangible things. Our culture prioritizes what can be seen and measured, like success, action, and outward expression. This creates a problem for introverts because their focus is inward—on the subjective, invisible aspects of life. This clash leaves them feeling out of place, like they’re in the minority—not in terms of numbers, but

in how their worldview contrasts with society’s. The real issue, though, is not just external pressure—it’s internal. Many introverts try to adapt to an extroverted world by undervaluing their inner life. They may try to conform to the world’s standards by prioritizing external achievements and dismissing their own subjective insights. But by doing this, they betray their own nature. This self-betrayal leads to feelings of inferiority, as though they’re failing at being both introverted and extroverted. Jung also points out that when society suppresses inner, subjective values, these values don’t disappear. Instead, they resurface in exaggerated and distorted ways, often

appearing in art or expression that feels extreme, chaotic, or out of balance. This is a symptom of our time—a culture where the inner world is struggling to find its voice. When introverts undervalue their inner life, they often become defensive. They might develop an “underdog” mindset, seeing extroverts as oppressors and themselves as victims. This defensiveness can make them self-focused, even egotistical, as they try to protect their inner world. But the truth is, the root of the problem lies in their failure to fully trust their own nature. Extroverts rely on the outer world with confidence, while introverts

often doubt their own subjective insights. This lack of trust is where things go wrong. The solution, according to Jung, is for introverts to embrace and depend on their inner life as fully as extroverts depend on the outer world. Its their greatest challenge, not the external world but their own undervaluing of their unique gifts. By trusting their inner nature, introverts can overcome feelings of inferiority and avoid falling into egotism. When they stay true to themselves, they not only find balance but also help the world appreciate the value of the inner, invisible side of life. Sensation, which

by its very nature is dependent on the object and on objective stimuli, undergoes considerable modification in the introverted attitude. It, too, has a subjective factor, for besides the sensed object there is a sensing subject who adds his subjective disposition to the objective stimulus. In the introverted attitude sensation is based predominantly on the subjective component of perception. What I mean by this is best illustrated by works of art which reproduce external objects. If, for instance, several painters were to paint the same landscape, each trying to reproduce it faithfully, each painting will be different from the others,

not merely because of differences in ability, but chiefly because of different ways of seeing; indeed, in some of the paintings there will be a distinct psychic difference in mood and the treatment of colour and form. These qualities betray the influence of the subjective factor. The subjective factor in sensation is essentially the same as in the other functions we have discussed. It is an unconscious disposition which alters the sense-perception at its source, thus depriving it of the character of a purely objective influence. In this case, sensation is related primarily to the subject and only secondarily to

the object. How extraordinarily strong the subjective factor can be is shown most clearly in art. Its predominance sometimes amounts to a complete suppression of the object’s influence, and yet the sensation remains sensation even though it has become a perception of the subjective factor and the object has sunk to the level of a mere stimulus. Introverted sensation is oriented accordingly. True sense-perception certainly exists, but it always looks as though the object did not penetrate into the subject in its own right, but as though the subject were seeing it quite differently, or saw quite other things than

other people see. Actually, he perceives the same things as everybody else, only he does not stop at the purely objective influence, but concerns himself with the subjective perception excited by the objective stimulus. Subjective perception is markedly different from the objective. What is perceived is either not found at all in the object, or is, at most, merely suggested by it. That is, although the perception can be similar to that of other men, it is not immediately derived from the objective behaviour of things. It does not impress one as a mere product of consciousness—it is too genuine

for that. But it makes a definite psychic impression because elements of a higher psychic order are discernible in it. This order, however, does not coincide with the contents of consciousness. It has to do with presuppositions or dispositions of the collective unconscious, with mythological images, with primordial possibilities of ideas. Subjective perception is characterized by the meaning that clings to it. It means more than the mere image of the object, though naturally only to one for whom the subjective factor means anything at all. To another, the reproduced subjective impression seems to suffer from the defect of not

being sufficiently like the object and therefore to have failed in its purpose. Introverted sensation apprehends the background of the physical world rather than its surface. The decisive thing is not the reality of the object, but the reality of the subjective factor, of the primordial images which, in their totality, constitute a psychic mirror-world. It is a mirror with the peculiar faculty of reflecting the existing contents of consciousness not in their known and customary form but somewhat as a million year old consciousness might see them. Such a consciousness would see the becoming and passing away of things

simultaneously with their momentary existence in the present, and not only that, it would also see what was before their becoming and will be after their passing hence. Naturally this is only a figure of speech, but one that I needed in order to illustrate in some way the peculiar nature of introverted sensation. We could say that introverted sensation transmits an image which does not so much reproduce the object as spread over it the patina of age-old subjective experience and the shimmer of events still unborn. The bare sense impression develops in depth, reaching into the past and

future, while extraverted sensation seizes on the momentary existence of things open to the light of day. The predominance of introverted sensation produces a definite type, which is characterized by certain peculiarities. It is an irrational type, because it is oriented amid the flux of events not by rational judgment but simply by what happens. Whereas the extraverted sensation type is guided by the intensity of objective influences, the introverted type is guided by the intensity of the subjective sensation excited by the objective stimulus. Obviously, therefore, no proportional relation exists between object and sensation, but one that is apparently

quite unpredictable and arbitrary. What will make an impression and what will not can never be seen in advance, and from outside. Did there exist an aptitude for expression in any way proportional to the intensity of his sensations, the irrationality of this type would be extraordinarily striking. This is the case, for instance, when an individual is a creative artist. But since this is the exception, the introvert’s characteristic difficulty in expressing himself also conceals his irrationality. On the contrary, he may be conspicuous for his calmness and passivity, or for his rational self-control. This peculiarity, which often leads

a superficial judgment astray, is really due to his unrelatedness to objects. Normally the object is not consciously de-valued in the least, but its stimulus is removed from it and immediately replaced by a subjective reaction no longer related to the reality of the object. This naturally has the same effect as devaluation. Such a type can easily make one question why one should exist at all, or why objects in general should have any justification for their existence since everything essential still goes on happening without them. This doubt may be justified in extreme cases, but not in the

normal, since the objective stimulus is absolutely necessary to sensation and merely produces something different from what the external situation might lead one to expect. Seen from the outside, it looks as though the effect of the object did not penetrate into the subject at all. This impression is correct inasmuch as a subjective content does, in fact, intervene from the unconscious and intercept the effect of the object. The intervention may be so abrupt that the individual appears to be shielding himself directly from all objective influences. In more serious cases, such a protective defense actually does exist. Even

with only a slight increase in the power of the unconscious, the subjective component of sensation becomes so alive that it almost completely obscures the influence of the object. If the object is a person, he feels completely de-valued, while the subject has an illusory conception of reality, which in pathological cases goes so far that he is no longer able to distinguish between the real object and the subjective perception. Although so vital a distinction reaches the vanishing point only in near-psychotic states, yet long before that the subjective perception can influence thought, feeling, and action to an excessive

degree despite the fact that the object is clearly seen in all its reality. When its influence does succeed in penetrating into the subject—because of its special intensity or because of its complete analogy with the unconscious image—even the normal type will be compelled to act in accordance with the unconscious model. Such action has an illusory character unrelated to objective reality and is extremely disconcerting. It instantly reveals the reality-alienating subjectivity of this type. But when the influence of the object does not break through completely, it is met with well-intentioned neutrality, disclosing little sympathy yet constantly striving to

soothe and adjust. The too low is raised a little, the too high is lowered, enthusiasm is damped down, extravagance restrained, and anything out of the ordinary reduced to the right formula—all this in order to keep the influence of the object within the necessary bounds. In this way the type becomes a menace to his environment because his total innocuousness is not altogether above suspicion. In that case he easily becomes a victim of the aggressiveness and domineeringness of others. Such men allow themselves to be abused and then take their revenge on the most unsuitable occasions with redoubled

obtuseness and stubbornness. If no capacity for artistic expression is present, all impressions sink into the depths and hold consciousness under a spell, so that it becomes impossible to master their fascination by giving them conscious expression. In general, this type can organize his impressions only in archaic ways, because thinking and feeling are relatively unconscious and, if conscious at all, have at their disposal only the most necessary, banal, everyday means of expression. As conscious functions, they are wholly incapable of adequately reproducing his subjective perceptions. This type, therefore, is uncommonly inaccessible to objective understanding, and he usually fares

no better in understanding himself. Above all, his development alienates him from the reality of the object, leaving him at the mercy of his subjective perceptions, which orient his consciousness to an archaic reality, although his lack of comparative judgment keeps him wholly unconscious of this fact. Actually, he lives in a mythological world, where men, animals, locomotives, houses, rivers, and mountains appear either as benevolent deities or as malevolent demons. That they appear thus to him never enters his head, though that is just the effect they have on his judgments and actions. He judges and acts as though

he had such powers to deal with; but this begins to strike him only when he discovers that his sensations are totally different from reality. If he has any aptitude for objective reason, he will sense this difference as morbid; but if he remains faithful to his irrationality, and is ready to grant his sensations reality value, the objective world will appear a mere make-believe and a comedy. Only in extreme cases, however, is this dilemma reached. As a rule, he resigns himself to his isolation and the banality of the world, which he has unconsciously made archaic. His unconscious

is distinguished chiefly by the repression of intuition, which consequently acquires an extraverted and archaic character. Whereas true extraverted intuition is possessed of a singular resourcefulness, a “good nose” for objectively real possibilities, this archaicized intuition has an amazing flair for all the ambiguous, shadowy, sordid, dangerous possibilities lurking in the background. The real and conscious intentions of the object mean nothing to it; instead, it sniffs out every conceivable archaic motive underlying such an intention. It therefore has a dangerous and destructive quality that contrasts glaringly with the well-meaning innocuousness of the conscious attitude. So long as the individual

does not hold too aloof from the object, his unconscious intuition has a salutary compensating effect on the rather fantastic and overcredulous attitude of consciousness. But as soon as the unconscious becomes antagonistic, the archaic intuitions come to the surface and exert their pernicious influence, forcing themselves on the individual and producing compulsive ideas of the most perverse kind. The result is usually a compulsion neurosis, in which the hysterical features are masked by symptoms of exhaustion. Sensation is the way we perceive the world around us, but for introverts, this perception is deeply influenced by their inner world. It’s

not just about what’s out there in the external world, but how the person perceives it through their subjective lens. This means that introverts add their own unique feelings and attitudes to what they sense. To understand this, think of artists. If several painters paint the same landscape, each one will create a different painting. It’s not just about skill; it’s about the artist’s personal way of seeing the world, which adds a mood or feeling to the scene. The same thing happens with introverts. They don't simply sense an object as it is; they perceive it through their own

emotions, experiences, and deeper layers of consciousness. This subjective perception is much richer than just the physical object. It holds meaning that goes beyond what’s immediately visible. For example, when an introvert looks at an object, they might perceive it in a way that connects to their own inner world—past experiences, emotions, or even archetypal images. So, what they perceive may not be directly in the object itself, but instead is shaped by their own unconscious mind. Introverted sensation isn’t just focused on the object as it exists in the present moment, but it also reaches into the past and

the future. It’s like looking at something and seeing not just what it is, but also what it was and what it might become. It's as though the person is perceiving the object through a lens of ancient, subjective experiences. Now, when we talk about the type of person who relies heavily on introverted sensation, they tend to be more irrational. They don’t judge things based on logic or external standards; instead, they’re guided by the internal feelings and impressions they get from objects. This makes their reactions to things unpredictable. Sometimes, these deep perceptions can feel disconnected from reality.

This type might find it hard to understand other people or even themselves, because they live in a world that’s shaped by their inner impressions rather than external facts. The world might appear to them more like a mythological or symbolic place, where objects and people seem to take on a deeper meaning, almost like they have personalities or powers. At the same time, their intuition, which is also shaped by the unconscious, can become distorted. Rather than seeing things clearly, they might perceive hidden, often darker meanings behind actions or objects. This intuition can sometimes lead them down a

destructive path, as they focus on negative or hidden motivations, while detaching from the outer reality. In the end, people with an excessive introverted sensation, may live in a world that feels isolated and disconnected from everyday reality. They’re guided by subjective impressions, often seeing the world in a more symbolic or mythological way, and their perceptions can sometimes lead them too far from the their external reality. Introverted intuition is directed to the inner object, a term that might justly be applied to the contents of the unconscious. The relation of inner objects to consciousness is entirely analogous to

that of outer objects, though their reality is not physical but psychic. They appear to intuitive perception as subjective images of things which, though not to be met with in the outside world, constitute the contents of the unconscious, and of the collective unconscious in particular. These contents per se are naturally not accessible to experience, a quality they have in common with external objects. For just as external objects correspond only relatively to our perception of them, so the phenomenal forms of the inner objects are also relative—products of their inaccessible essence and of the peculiar nature of the

intuitive function. Like sensation, intuition has its subjective factor, which is suppressed as much as possible in the extraverted attitude but is the decisive factor in the intuition of the introvert. Although his intuition may be stimulated by external objects, it does not concern itself with external possibilities but with what the external object has released within him. Whereas introverted sensation is mainly restricted to the perception, via the unconscious, of the phenomena of innervation and is arrested there, introverted intuition suppresses this side of the subjective factor and perceives the image that caused the innervation. Supposing, for instance, a

man is overtaken by an attack of psycho-genic vertigo. Sensation is arrested by the peculiar nature of this disturbance of innervation, perceiving all its qualities, its intensity, its course, how it arose and how it passed, but not advancing beyond that to its content, to the thing that caused the disturbance. Intuition, on the other hand, receives from sensation only the impetus to its own immediate activity; it peers behind the scenes, quickly perceiving the inner image that gave rise to this particular form of expression—the attack of vertigo. It sees the image of a tottering man pierced through the

heart by an arrow. This image fascinates the intuitive activity; it is arrested by it, and seeks to explore every detail of it. It holds fast to the vision, observing with the liveliest interest how the picture changes, unfolds, and finally fades. In this way introverted intuition perceives all the background processes of consciousness with almost the same distinctness as extraverted sensation registers external objects. For intuition, therefore, unconscious images acquire the dignity of things. But, because intuition excludes the co-operation of sensation, it obtains little or no knowledge of the disturbances of innervation or of the physical effects produced

by the unconscious images. The images appear as though detached from the subject, as though existing in themselves without any relation to him. Consequently, in the above-mentioned example, the introverted intuitive, if attacked by vertigo, would never imagine that the image he perceived might in some way refer to himself. To a judging type this naturally seems almost inconceivable, but it is none the less a fact which I have often come across in my dealings with intuitives. The remarkable indifference of the extraverted intuitive to external objects is shared by the introverted intuitive in relation to inner objects. Just

as the extraverted intuitive is continually scenting out new possibilities, which he pursues with equal unconcern for his own welfare and for that of others, pressing on quite heedless of human considerations and tearing down what has just been built in his everlasting search for change, so the introverted intuitive moves from image to image, chasing after every possibility in the teeming womb of the unconscious, without establishing any connection between them and himself. Just as the world of appearances can never become a moral problem for the man who merely senses it, the world of inner images is never

a moral problem for the intuitive. For both of them it is an aesthetic problem, a matter of perception, a “sensation.” Because of this, the introverted intuitive has little consciousness of his own bodily existence or of its effect on others. The extravert would say: “Reality does not exist for him, he gives himself up to fruitless fantasies.” The perception of the images of the unconscious, produced in such inexhaustible abundance by the creative energy of life, is of course fruitless from the standpoint of immediate utility. But since these images represent possible views of the world which may give

life a new potential, this function, which to the outside world is the strangest of all, is as indispensable to the total psychic economy as is the corresponding human type to the psychic life of a people. Had this type not existed, there would have been no prophets in Israel. Introverted intuition apprehends the images arising from the apriori inherited foundations of the unconscious. These archetypes, whose innermost nature is inaccessible to experience, are the precipitate of the psychic functioning of the whole ancestral line; the accumulated experiences of organic life in general, a million times repeated, and condensed into

types. In these archetypes, therefore, all experiences are represented which have happened on this planet since primeval times. The more frequent and the more intense they were, the more clearly focused they become in the archetype. The archetype would thus be, to borrow from Kant, the noumenon of the image which intuition perceives and, in perceiving, creates. Since the unconscious is not just something that lies there like a psychic caput mortuum, worthless residue, but coexists with us and is constantly undergoing transformations which are inwardly connected with the general run of events, introverted intuition, through its perception of these

inner processes, can supply certain data which may be of the utmost importance for understanding what is going on in the world. It can even foresee new possibilities in more or less clear outline, as well as events which later actually do happen. Its prophetic foresight is explained by its relation to the archetypes, which represent the laws governing the course of all experienceable things. The peculiar nature of introverted intuition, if it gains the ascendency, produces a peculiar type of man: the mystical dreamer and seer on the one hand, the artist and the crank on the other. The

artist might be regarded as the normal representative of this type, which tends to confine itself to the perceptive character of intuition. As a rule, the intuitive stops at perception; perception is his main problem, and—in the case of a creative artist—the shaping of his perception. But the crank is content with a visionary idea by which he himself is shaped and determined. Naturally the intensification of intuition often results in an extraordinary aloofness of the individual from tangible reality; he may even become a complete enigma to his immediate circle. If he is an artist, he reveals strange, far-off

things in his art, shimmering in all colours, at once portentous and banal, beautiful and grotesque, sublime and whimsical. If not an artist, he is frequently a misunderstood genius, a great man “gone wrong,” a sort of wise simpleton, a figure for “psychological” novels. Although the intuitive type has little inclination to make a moral problem of perception, since a strengthening of the judging functions is required for this, only a slight differentiation of judgment is sufficient to shift intuitive perception from the purely aesthetic into the moral sphere. A variety of this type is thus produced which differs essentially

from the aesthetic, although it is none the less characteristic of the introverted intuitive. The moral problem arises when the intuitive tries to relate himself to his vision, when he is no longer satisfied with mere perception and its aesthetic configuration and evaluation, when he confronts the questions: What does this mean for me or the world? What emerges from this vision in the way of a duty or a task, for me or the world? The pure intuitive who represses his judgment, or whose judgment is held in thrall by his perceptive faculties, never faces this question squarely, since

his only problem is the “know-how” of perception. He finds the moral problem unintelligible or even absurd, and as far as possible forbids his thoughts to dwell on the disconcerting vision. It is different with the morally oriented intuitive. He reflects on the meaning of his vision, and is less concerned with developing its aesthetic possibilities than with the moral effects which emerge from its intrinsic significance. His judgment allows him to discern, though often only darkly, that he, as a man and a whole human being, is somehow involved in his vision, that it is not just an object

to be perceived, but wants to participate in the life of the subject. Through this realization he feels bound to transform his vision into his own life. But since he tends to rely most predominantly on his vision, his moral efforts become one-sided; he makes himself and his life symbolic—adapted, it is true, to the inner and eternal meaning of events, but unadapted to present-day reality. He thus deprives himself of any influence upon it because he remains uncomprehended. His language is not the one currently spoken—it has become too subjective. His arguments lack the convincing power of reason. He

can only profess or proclaim. His is “the voice of one crying in the wilderness.” What the introverted intuitive represses most of all is the sensation of the object, and this colours his whole unconscious. It gives rise to a compensatory extraverted sensation function of an archaic character. The unconscious personality can best be described as an extraverted sensation type of a rather low and primitive order. Instinctuality and intemperance are the hallmarks of this sensation, combined with an extraordinary dependence on sense impressions. This compensates the rarefied air of the intuitive’s conscious attitude, giving it a certain weight, so

that complete “sublimation” is prevented. But if, through a forced exaggeration of the conscious attitude, there should be a complete subordination to inner perceptions, the unconscious goes over to the opposition, giving rise to compulsive sensations whose excessive dependence on the object directly contradicts the conscious attitude. The form of neurosis is a compulsion neurosis with hypochondriacal symptoms, hypersensitivity of the sense organs, and compulsive ties to particular persons or objects. Introverted intuition is a way of perceiving the inner world, focusing on unconscious content. These inner objects, unlike external objects, are not physical, but psychological. They come to the

conscious mind as images or ideas that aren’t based on the external world, but represent the deeper contents of the unconscious, particularly the collective unconscious. These inner objects can’t be directly experienced, much like how we can never fully know external objects, only perceive them indirectly, as Jung emphasized, following Kant's epistemology. Just like sensation, intuition has a subjective aspect that is more pronounced in introverts. For example, an introverted person experiencing a sensation, like vertigo, might focus more on the inner image or feeling triggered by the sensation, rather than the physical symptoms of the disturbance. They might see

a symbolic image, like a person pierced by an arrow, and focus on this image instead of the physical details of the vertigo itself. Introverted intuition allows these inner images to feel as real as external objects. However, these images are disconnected from the person’s physical state, so the intuitive person might not even recognize that the images have any connection to their own situation. For them, these images are purely aesthetic—they simply observe and explore the images without necessarily making them meaningful or relevant to their lives. While the introverted intuitive might seem detached from reality, this function is

essential for the psyche. These inner images, drawn from archetypes—the ancient, inherited forms of the unconscious—help shape potential views of the world. Even though these images may seem unrelated to current reality, they can influence the future, offering foresight and insights about possible events. This intuitive function can also create a unique type of person. If developed, they might be seen as mystical dreamers or artists, creating vivid, symbolic representations of their inner world. However, these individuals can sometimes seem disconnected or misunderstood because their focus is on inner perception rather than engaging with the physical world. The introverted intuitive

doesn’t typically make a moral judgment about the images they perceive. Their focus is primarily on the experience of the image itself. However, if they start reflecting on the meaning of these visions, a moral dilemma can arise: what do these images mean for the world, and what should they do about it? A purely intuitive person might avoid facing this moral responsibility, while someone with more developed judgment might try to apply the insights from their visions to real life, though this can lead to difficulties in being understood by others. In the unconscious, the intuitive’s perception is compensated

by a more extraverted sensation function, which can manifest as a primitive, compulsive need for physical sensations. If the intuitive’s inner world dominates too much, this imbalance might lead to neurosis, such as compulsive behaviors or heightened sensitivity to external stimuli. The two types just described are almost inaccessible to judgment from outside. Being introverted, and having in consequence little capacity or desire for expression, they offer but a frail handle in this respect. As their main activity is directed inwards, nothing is outwardly visible but reserve, secretiveness, lack of sympathy, uncertainty, and an apparently groundless embarrassment. When anything does

come to the surface, it is generally an indirect manifestation of the inferior and relatively unconscious functions. Such manifestations naturally arouse all the current prejudices against this type. Accordingly they are mostly underestimated, or at least misunderstood. To the extent that they do not understand themselves—because they very largely lack judgment—they are also powerless to understand why they are so constantly underestimated by the public. They cannot see that their efforts to be forthcoming are, as a matter of fact, of an inferior character. Their vision is enthralled by the richness of subjective events. What is going on inside them

is so captivating, and of such inexhaustible charm, that they simply do not notice that the little they do manage to communicate contains hardly anything of what they themselves have experienced. The fragmentary and episodic character of their communications makes too great a demand on the understanding and good will of those around them; also, their communications are without the personal warmth that alone carries the power of conviction. On the contrary, these types have very often a harsh, repelling manner, though of this they are quite unaware and did not intend it. We shall form a fairer judgment of

such people, and show them greater forbearance, when we begin to realize how hard it is to translate into intelligible language what is perceived within. Yet this forbearance must not go so far as to exempt them altogether from the need to communicate. This would only do them the greatest harm. Fate itself prepares for them, perhaps even more than for other men, overwhelming external difficulties which have a very sobering effect on those intoxicated by the inner vision. Often it is only an intense personal need that can wring from them a human confession. From an extraverted and rationalistic

standpoint, these types are indeed the most useless of men. But, viewed from a higher standpoint, they are living evidence that this rich and varied world with its overflowing and intoxicating life is not purely external, but also exists within. These types are admittedly one-sided specimens of nature, but they are an object lesson for the man who refuses to be blinded by the intellectual fashion of the day. In their own way, they are educators and promoters of culture. Their life teaches more than their words. From their lives, and not least from their greatest fault—their inability to communicate—we

may understand one of the greatest errors of our civilization, that is, the superstitious belief in verbal statements, the boundless overestimation of instruction by means of words and methods. A child certainly allows himself to be impressed by the grand talk of his parents, but do they really imagine he is educated by it? Actually it is the parents’ lives that educate the child—what they add by word and gesture at best serves only to confuse him. The same holds good for the teacher. But we have such a belief in method that, if only the method be good, the

practice of it seems to sanctify the teacher. An inferior man is never a good teacher. But he can conceal his pernicious inferiority, which secretly poisons the pupil, behind an excellent method or an equally brilliant gift of gab. Naturally the pupil of riper years desires nothing better than the knowledge of useful methods, because he is already defeated by the general attitude, which believes in the all-conquering method. He has learned that the emptiest head, correctly parroting a method, is the best pupil. His whole environment is an optical demonstration that all success and all happiness are outside, and

that only the right method is needed to attain the haven of one’s desires. Or does, perchance, the life of his religious instructor demonstrate the happiness which radiates from the treasure of the inner vision? The irrational introverted types are certainly no teachers of a more perfect humanity; they lack reason and the ethics of reason. But their lives teach the other possibility, the interior life which is so painfully wanting in our civilization. Jung describes the introverted irrational types as individuals who are primarily focused on their inner world, which makes them difficult to understand and judge from an

external perspective. These types have limited capacity or desire to express themselves, leading to an outward appearance of reserve, secretiveness, and often a lack of sympathy. Their communication is indirect and fragmentary, making it hard for others to connect with them or understand their inner experiences. Despite their best efforts to reach out, they often struggle to convey the richness of their inner life due to their inability to relate their subjective perceptions in clear language. These types are frequently misunderstood or underestimated, primarily because they lack the judgment to see that their communications often fail to express what they

have truly experienced. They are inwardly absorbed, and their focus on their inner world can be so consuming that they fail to notice how their communications are often cold or unintelligible to others. From the viewpoint of a rational, extraverted person, these introverted types may seem "useless," but Jung suggests that they provide an important lesson about the nature of the world. These individuals embody the notion that reality is not just an external phenomenon but also exists deeply within the psyche. While one might see them as one-sided, they serve as educators in a more profound sense—they teach by

living and by exemplifying the importance of the inner life. Jung emphasizes that their inability to communicate effectively is actually a crucial lesson. It reveals the flaw in our civilization’s over-reliance on verbal instruction and methods of communication. The rich, subjective life these individuals lead is often more educational than words alone, as it challenges the conventional view that success and knowledge lie purely in the external, measurable world. Jung’s exploration of the introverted irrational types offers insight into the struggle of individuals who are deeply connected to their inner world but unable to express it effectively to others. These

types—whether artists, mystics, or misunderstood visionaries—represent a counterbalance to the outwardly focused, rational, and method-driven aspects of modern society. The key theme that emerges here is the tension between the interior and exterior worlds, and how our culture often undervalues or overlooks the profound impact of inner experiences. The "failure" of these types to communicate verbally or outwardly is not a deficiency but a reflection of the rich and complex inner life they lead. This reminds us of the limitations of intellectual and rational methods in understanding the fullness of the human experience. Jung’s observation that the "life" of these

types, rather than their words, is their true teaching speaks to the idea that wisdom and personal transformation often come from lived experience rather than abstract knowledge. In a world obsessed with results, methods, and efficiency, these introverted irrational types provide a vital reminder that not all education is tangible or immediately useful in the conventional sense. Their lives embody a different kind of knowledge—one that invites us to reconsider the value of inward reflection and the non-verbal dimensions of existence. Ultimately, this passage challenges the reductionist view of human life that privileges only what can be seen or measured

externally, encouraging a deeper appreciation for the richness of the internal world and the lessons it has to offer, even if they cannot always be expressed in words.