The Rise of the Intuitive Introvert (Carl Jung Explains)

One of the most difficult types is the intuitive  introvert. The intuitive extrovert you find them all hunters, bankers, gamblers. But the  introvert.

. . he has intuitions as to the subjective factor, namely The Inner World.

Very  difficult to understand. Because what he sees are most uncommon things and he doesn’t like  to talk of them. If he’s not a fool.

Because he would spoil his own game by telling what  he sees because people won’t understand it. When the introverted intuitive would  speak what he really perceives, then, practically no one would understand it. He  would be misunderstood.

And so they learn to keep things to themselves. And you hardly  ever hear them talking of these things. That is a great disadvantage but it is  an enormous advantage in another way.

In human relations. For instance, they come  into the presence of somebody they don’t know and suddenly they have inner images.  And those inner images give them a more or less complete information about the psychology of  the partner.

You know that is… but it, of course, can also happen that they come into the  presence of somebody who they don’t know at all and they know an important piece  out of the biography of that person and are not aware of it and tell the story  and then the hat is in the fire. So, the introverted intuitive has, in a  way, a very difficult life, although, one of the most interesting lives. But it is  difficult, often, to get into their confidence.

The things that are interesting to them, or are  vital to them, are utterly strange to the ordinary individual. A psychologist should know of such  things. You see?

When people make a psychology, as a psychologist ought to do, well, it is the  very first question: "Is he introverted or is he extroverted? " He would look at entirely  different things. Is he a sensation type?

Is he the intuitive type? Is he thinking? Is he  feeling?

Because, you see, these things are complicated. And, they are still more complicated  because the introverted thinking, for instance, is compensated by extroverted feeling, by inferior,  archaic, extroverted feeling. So an introverted thinker may be very crude in his feeling,  like for instance the introverted philosopher.

Welcome, dear lover of wisdom,  to another video from Irevelato, where we unveil the wisdom of humanity's  greatest luminaries. If you've ever felt misunderstood for having a rich inner  world of complex images and ideas, then today's exploration of Carl Jung's work on the  introverted intuitive type is essential viewing. Jung's incisive analysis in this  excerpt will shine a light on the unique gifts and challenges of those who  perceive the contents of the unconscious with almost the same clarity that others  perceive the external world.

He reveals the astonishing creative potential of  this psychological type, while also cautioning about the difficulties they face in  relating their inner visions to outer reality. Whether you recognize yourself in Jung's  description or simply wish to better understand this fascinating dimension of the  human psyche, I invite you to watch with an open and curious mind. As Jung himself wrote, "Who  looks outside dreams; who looks inside awakes.

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And now, without further ado, I present to you Carl  Jung on the introverted intuitive type. Make yourself comfortable, and let's allow  this visionary thinker to illuminate us. 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 (to us) 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 psychogenic 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  nonetheless 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 a priori 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 focussed 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, 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.

The two types just depicted are almost  inaccessible to external judgment. Because they are introverted and have in consequence a somewhat  meagre capacity or willingness for expression, they offer but a frail handle for a telling  criticism. Since their main activity is directed within, nothing is outwardly visible but reserve,  secretiveness, lack of sympathy, or uncertainty, and an apparently groundless perplexity. 

When anything does come to the surface, it usually consists in indirect manifestations  of inferior and relatively unconscious functions. Manifestations of such a nature naturally excite  a certain environmental prejudice against these types. Accordingly they are mostly underestimated,  or at least misunderstood.

To the same degree as they fail to understand themselves -- because  they very largely lack judgment -- they are also powerless to understand why they are so  constantly undervalued by public opinion. They cannot see that their outward-going  expression is, as a matter of fact, also of an inferior character. Their vision is  enchanted by the abundance of subjective events.

What happens there is so captivating,  and of such inexhaustible attraction, that they do not appreciate the fact that their  habitual communications to their circle express very, little of that real experience in  which they themselves are, as it were, caught up. The fragmentary and, as a rule, quite  episodic character of their communications make too great a demand upon the understanding  and good will of their circle; furthermore, their mode of expression lacks that flowing  warmth to the object which alone can have convincing force. On the contrary, these types  show very often a brusque, repelling demeanour towards the outer world, although of this they are  quite unaware, and have not the least intention of showing it.

We shall form a fairer judgment of  such men and grant them a greater indulgence, when we begin to realize how hard it is to translate  into intelligible language what is perceived within. Yet this indulgence must not be so liberal  as to exempt them altogether from the necessity of such expression. This could be only detrimental  for such types.

Fate itself prepares for them, perhaps even more than for other men, overwhelming  external difficulties, which have a very sobering effect upon the intoxication of the inner vision.  But frequently only an intense personal need can wring from them a human expression. From an  extraverted and rationalistic standpoint, such types are indeed the most fruitless of  men.

But, viewed from a higher standpoint, such men are living evidence of the fact 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 demonstrations of Nature, but they are an  educational experience for the man who refuses to be blinded by the intellectual mode of the day. In their own way, men with such an attitude are educators and promoters of culture.

Their life  teaches more than their words. From their lives, and not the least from what is just their  greatest fault, viz. their incommunicability, we may understand one of the greatest errors  of our civilization, that is, the superstitious belief in statement and presentation, the  immoderate overprizing of instruction by means of word and method.

A child certainly allows  himself to be impressed by the grand talk of its parents. But is it really imagined that the child  is thereby educated? Actually it is the parents' lives that educate the child -- what they add  thereto 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  hallow the teacher. An inferior man is never.

a good teacher. But he can conceal his injurious  inferiority, which secretly poisons the pupil, behind an excellent method or, an equally  brilliant intellectual capacity. 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 victorious method.

He has already learnt that the emptiest head, correctly echoing  a method, is the best pupil. His whole environment not only urges but exemplifies the doctrine  that all success and happiness are external, and that only the right method is needed to  attain the haven of one's desires. Or is the life of his religious instructor likely to  demonstrate that happiness which radiates from the treasure of the inner vision?

The  irrational introverted types are certainly no instructors of a more complete humanity.  They lack reason and the ethics of reason, but their lives teach the other possibility, in  which our civilization is so deplorably wanting. In the foregoing descriptions I have no  desire to give my readers the impression that such pure types occur at all frequently  in actual practice.

The are, as it were, only Galtonesque family portraits, which  sum up in a cumulative image the common and therefore typical characters, stressing these  disproportionately, while the individual features are just as disproportionately effaced. Accurate  investigation of the individual case consistently reveals the fact that, in conjunction  with the most differentiated function, another function of secondary importance,  and therefore of inferior differentiation in consciousness, is constantly present,  and is a -- relatively determining factor. For the sake of clarity let us again recapitulate:  The products of all the functions can be conscious, but we speak of the consciousness of  a function only when not merely its application is at the disposal of the will, but when at  the same time its principle is decisive for the orientation of consciousness.

The latter event  is true when, for instance, thinking is not a mere esprit de l'escalier, or rumination, but when  its decisions possess an absolute validity, so that the logical conclusion in a given case  holds good, whether as motive or as guarantee of practical action, without the backing of any  further evidence. This absolute sovereignty always belongs, empirically, to one function alone, and  can belong only to one function, since the equally independent intervention of another function  would necessarily yield a different orientation, which would at least partially contradict the  first. But, since it is a vital condition for the conscious adaptation-process that constantly  clear and unambiguous aims should be in evidence, the presence of a second function of equivalent  power is naturally forbidden' This other function, therefore, can have only a secondary importance,  a fact which is also established empirically.

Its secondary importance consists in the fact that, in  a given case, it is not valid in its own right, as is the primary function, as an absolutely reliable  and decisive factor, but comes into play more as an auxiliary or complementary function. Naturally  only those functions can appear as auxiliary whose nature is not opposed to the leading function.  For instance, feeling can never act as the second function by the side of thinking, because  its nature stands in too strong a contrast to thinking.

Thinking, if it is to be real thinking  and true to its own principle, must scrupulously exclude feeling. This, of course, does not  exclude the fact that individuals certainly exist in whom thinking and feeling stand upon the  same level, whereby both have equal motive power in consciousness. But, in such a case, there  is also no question of a differentiated type, but merely of a relatively undeveloped  thinking and feeling.

Uniform consciousness and unconsciousness of functions is, therefore,  a distinguishing mark of a primitive mentality. Experience shows that the secondary function  is always one whose nature is different from, though not antagonistic to, the leading function :  thus, for example, thinking, as primary function, can readily pair with intuition as auxiliary,  or indeed equally well with sensation, but, as already observed, never with feeling. Neither  intuition nor sensation are antagonistic to thinking, i.

e. they have not to be unconditionally  excluded, since they are not, like feeling, of similar nature, though of opposite purpose,  to thinking -- for as a judging function feeling successfully competes with thinking -- but  are functions of perception, affording welcome assistance to thought. As soon as they reached  the same level of differentiation as thinking, they would cause a change of attitude, which  would contradict the tendency of thinking.

For they would convert the judging attitude into  a perceiving one; whereupon the principle of rationality indispensable to thought would be  suppressed in favour of the irrationality of mere perception. Hence the auxiliary function  is possible and useful only in so far as it serves the leading function, without making  any claim to the autonomy of its own principle. For all the types appearing in practice, the  principle holds good that besides the conscious main function there is also a relatively  unconscious, auxiliary function which is in every respect different from the nature of the  main function.

From these combinations well-known pictures arise, the practical intellect for  instance paired with sensation, the speculative intellect breaking through with intuition, the  artistic intuition which selects. and presents its images by means of feeling judgment, the  philosophical intuition which, in league with a vigorous intellect, translates its vision into the  sphere of comprehensible thought, and so forth. A grouping of the unconscious functions also takes  place in accordance with the relationship of the conscious functions.

Thus, for instance,  an unconscious intuitive feeling attitude may correspond with a conscious practical  intellect, whereby the function of feeling suffers a relatively stronger inhibition  than intuition. This peculiarity, however, is of interest only for one who is concerned  with the practical psychological treatment of such cases. But for such a man it is important  to know about it.

For I have frequently observed the way in which a physician, in the case for  instance of an exclusively intellectual subject, will do his utmost to develop the feeling  function directly out of the unconscious. This attempt must always come to grief, since it  involves too great a violation of the conscious standpoint. Should such a violation succeed,  there ensues a really compulsive dependence of the patient upon the physician, a 'transference'  which can be amputated only by brutality, because such a violation robs the patient  of a standpoint -- his physician becomes his standpoint.

But the approach to the unconscious  and to the most repressed function is disclosed, as it were, of itself, and with more adequate  protection of the conscious standpoint, when the way of development is via the  secondary function-thus in the case of a rational type by way of the irrational function.  For this lends the conscious standpoint such a range and prospect over what is possible and  imminent that consciousness gains an adequate protection against the destructive effect of  the unconscious. Conversely, an irrational type demands a stronger development of the rational  auxiliary function represented in consciousness, in order to be sufficiently prepared to  receive the impact of the unconscious.

The unconscious functions are in an archaic,  animal state. Their symbolical appearances in dreams and phantasies usually represent the battle  or coming encounter of two animals or monsters.