Word: jungly
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They were dream works, not in the pressagent's sense of the word, but in Jung's. Snow White's flight through a forest that seemed to come alive and clutch at her; the vision of the creation of the world in Fantasia; Pinocchio's search for his father, taking him through the grotesque amusement park on the island of lost boys and into the belly of a whale-these sequences strummed psychic chords that live-action comedies like The Barefoot Executive (1971) do not aspire to touch...
Obviously, Lovecraft here was exploring those tenebrific estuaries of the occult that had barely been mapped by Jung, Fraser and Arthur Machen. He even equipped the ancient demons with names - mindless Azagoth, Soggoth, Ib, Nyarlathotep and, above all, the great dread Cthulu who, in his sole appear ance, seems to be a "gelatinous green immensity" that slobbers. To recall these alien creatures from their hideous hiding places (the arctic wastes, unfathomable submarine chasms, New Eng land), the intrepid have but to practice rituals recorded in dusty, blasphemous old tomes like the Necronomicon of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred...
...psychoanalysis. In 1912, she wrote to Freud and promptly joined his circle, then in Vienna. Once under his influence, she never escaped. Till the end of her life (1937) she remained his singularly uncritical devotee, and supported him at every tug on the orthdox line throughout the squabbles with Jung, Adler, Rank and the others...
...this collection and that evenness of quality is the strongest testimony of Hesse's failure to mature as a writer. Over five decades he remained "true to himself" too well. For all of his travels to the East, his studies of Buddhism and mysticism, and his purported interests in Jung and Nietzsche he could only touch the surface of the mood of alienation, which Joyce and Eliot plumbed so fully...
Atavistic Souls. There is more to Sophocles than Jung had dreamed of. Langham has performed his own sacrifice: he has given up the head of Oedipus to secure that bloody heart, and the contradictions cannot always be contained as Sophocles goes one way and Langham another. The nice English-repertory accents that lurk beneath those animal skins are also jarring, and above the Afro-Greek beat of Stanley Silverman's score, one hears the vaguely Elizabethan cadence of Burgess's script. But Langham's sacrifice is worth it. He has taken 20th century audiences, prepared to yawn...