...it seemed to me I was living in an insane asylum of my own making. I wnt about with all these fantastic figures: centaurs, nymphs, satyrs, gods and goddesses, as though they were patients and I was analyzing them. I read a Greek or Negro myth as if a lunatic were telling me his anamnesis.

Without this playing with fantasy no creative work has ever yet come to birth. The debt we owe to the play of the imagination is incalculable.

Knowledge does not enrich us; it removes us more and more from the mythic world in which we were once at home by right of birth.

The afternoon of a human life must have a significance of its own, and cannot be merely a pitiful appendage to life's morning.

Creativity is the art that can give rise to visionary metaphorical relationships, as opposed to purely psy-chological ones.

Wholeness is not achieved by cutting off a portion of one’s being, but by integration of the contraries.

How else could it have occurred to man to divide the cosmos, on the analogy of day and night, summer and winter, into a bright day-world and a dark night-world peopled with fabulous monsters, unless he had the prototype of such a division in himself, in the polarity between the conscious and the invisible and unknowable unconscious?