Digesting Jung: Food for the Journey - Inner City Books
Digesting Jung: Food for the Journey - Inner City Books
Digesting Jung: Food for the Journey - Inner City Books
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Typology Revisited 33<br />
were plenty. He brought people home at all hours of <strong>the</strong> day and<br />
night. I liked privacy, my own quiet space. I was concerned to keep<br />
to my timetable. During <strong>the</strong> day I escaped to my room and studied,<br />
or pretended to. At night I lay in bed with a pillow over my head,<br />
listening to <strong>the</strong>m carouse.<br />
On <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r hand, Arnold’s way of functioning was sometimes<br />
quite helpful. Like when we furnished <strong>the</strong> house.<br />
Our landlady, Gretchen, took an immediate fancy to Arnold. God<br />
knows why, he didn’t present as well as I did. “Just pick out what<br />
you want,” she said. “You do <strong>the</strong> shopping, I’ll pay <strong>the</strong> bills.”<br />
I had a few things in mind. So did Arnold. My ideas were quite<br />
modest, Arnold’s were not. We already had beds and a few chairs.<br />
“A nice com<strong>for</strong>table sofa,” I said, as we entered <strong>the</strong> department<br />
store. “A bookcase and a desk <strong>for</strong> each of us, a couple of lamps.<br />
That’s all we need.”<br />
“You have no imagination,” said Arnold, steering me to <strong>the</strong> antiques.<br />
“You do <strong>the</strong> talking.”<br />
Naturally. I had not come to Switzerland without learning some<br />
German. Be<strong>for</strong>e leaving Canada I took a Berlitz course <strong>for</strong> six<br />
months. I wasn’t fluent but I could make myself understood. I could<br />
also get by in French. Arnold knew no French and could not even<br />
count in German. I think he did not realize he was coming to a <strong>for</strong>eign<br />
country. I scolded him about this more than once.<br />
“A few phrases,” I implored. “Try saying hello, Guten Tag.”<br />
“Aw,” he said, “<strong>the</strong>y all speak English.”<br />
As it turned out, <strong>the</strong>y didn’t. Worse, and to my chagrin, <strong>the</strong> language<br />
of <strong>the</strong> streets was Swiss German, a dialect, almost as different<br />
from German as Welsh or Scottish is from English. I was just<br />
about as helpless as Arnold.<br />
Back to <strong>the</strong> department store. In one language or ano<strong>the</strong>r, we<br />
managed to spend a lot of our landlady’s money. While I fumbled<br />
to say exactly what I meant, Arnold waved his hands and gesticulated.<br />
By <strong>the</strong> time we left, ushered out by a grateful crowd of salespeople,<br />
we had a few things I hadn’t thought of: a Chinese screen,