Digesting Jung: Food for the Journey - Inner City Books

34 Typology Revisited
two Indian carpets, a complete set of dishes and cutlery (for eight),
ten pounds of bratwurst, a commode reputedly used by Louis XIV,
and several numbered prints by Miro and Chagall.
Gretchen was thrilled. She gave us a special dinner. Arnold
stayed behind when I left. “I’ll just wrap up the lease,” he winked.
I struggled to appreciate Arnold. I wanted to. His outgoing nature
and natural ebullience were charming. I admired his air of careless
confidence. He was the life of every party. He easily adapted to
new situations. He was a lot more adventurous than I was. Where I
hung back, tentative and wary, he plowed ahead. He easily made
friends. And then brought them home.
He had an uncanny sense of perception. Whenever I got in a rut,
bogged down in routine, he had something to suggest. His mind
was fertile; it seethed with plans and new ideas. His hunches were
usually right. It was like he had a sixth sense, while I was restricted
to the usual five. My vision was mundane—where I saw a “thing”
or a “person,” Arnold saw, well, its soul.
But problems constantly arose between us. When he expressed
an intention to do something I took him at his word. I believed he
would do what he said he would. This was particularly annoying
when we had arranged to meet at a certain time and place and he
didn’t show up.
“Look,” I’d say, “I counted on you being there. I bought the tickets.
Where were you?”
“I got waylaid,” he’d counter defensively, “something else
turned up, I couldn’t resist.”
“You’re unstable, I can’t depend on you. You’re irresponsible
and flighty. Why, you don’t have a standpoint at all.”
That isn’t how Arnold saw it.
“I only express possibilities,” he said, when for about the tenth
time I accused him of being a social menace. “They aren’t real until
I say them, and when I do they take on some shape. But that
doesn’t mean I’ll follow up on them. Something better might occur