Copyright: Starwars.com I hope that you had a chance to read John Bucher’s introduction  to the theme of the MythBlast series in 2025. As John observes, the cinema is one of the last remaining places that transports us from the realm of the mundane into the numinous, making it very worthwhile to examine it through the lens of Joseph Campbell’s work. Exploring a different archetype every month, our writers will illuminate how each one presents itself on-screen with delicious variations while yet maintaining common characteristics that aggregate under the archetype’s umbrella. I am thrilled to be both the editor of the series and a contributor this month for The Fool. A very human droid I have chosen for the focus of my article a much-beloved character from the Star Wars  Universe: C-3PO, often just called Threepio. Although technically a(n an)droid, Threepio is quite human in many respects. In fact, he and his droid sidekick, R2-D2 (Artoo), carry the bulk of the first quarter of the original 1977 movie, Episode IV: A New Hope . While we quickly grasp that Artoo and Threepio provide comic relief with their banter, by examining Threepio as The Fool we can gain a deeper appreciation for both how he functions and how he resonates with viewers. The Fool often exhibits qualities that keen audiences grasp quickly: a childlike innocence and naivete, blithe disregard for societal rules and norms, simplistic and limited worldviews, and a form of courage and carefreeness that comes from being unaware of conventions and situations. Certainly Threepio fits most of these. His wide-open eyes, combined with his mouth permanently agape, give him a constant look of wonder. His limited movement and lack of fighting capabilities make him seem as non-threatening and defenseless as a child. Threepio often can tend to pontificate, give too much detail on a subject, or not pick up on the social clues that his input or presence is not valued. From the film’s opening, he establishes a pattern of disinterest in the grand struggles of the rebels against the Empire—he worries far more about self-preservation than greater causes. Joseph Campbell famously spoke to Bill Moyers about Star Wars  in the interviews that comprise The Power of Myth . Campbell at one point focuses on Darth Vader’s mask which, when removed, shows a man “who has not developed his humanity. He’s a robot” (178). In some ways, the robot Threepio is more human than Vader, in that aspects of his humanity seem developed. However, Threepio’s mask, unlike Vader’s, is fear —the expression that his face carries can be both wonder and horror. Indeed, the one very non-Fool aspect that differentiates Threepio from most Fools, is an over developed survival mechanism—his utterances such as “We’re doomed” and “This is madness” constantly portray dread at his situation. While the Tarot Fool inattentively walks over the cliffside, Threepio is hypervigilant for cliffs of all kinds: a neurotic Fool. While the Tarot Fool inattentively walks over the cliffside, Threepio is hypervigilant for cliffs of all kinds: a neurotic Fool. Holding our shared fears As much as we think of heroic protagonists as fearless, closer to the truth is that they either manage or repress their anxieties in the name of taking action. British film critic Rob Ager (on his YouTube channel Collative Learning) speaks of one of Threepio’s functions in the films: he is the one character allowed to express out loud “the negative emotional baggage that the heroes of the story have to drag about” ( “Star Wars: the hidden complexities of C3PO (character analysis) Part One,”  00:58:50 – 00:58:56). Moreover, Threepio does so with the assistance of computer-driven precision about the odds of survival or failure.  In a sense, Threepio’s worry is pure . While we, the audience, tend to lean into the belief that heroes will succeed and everything will turn out alright because “that’s how heroic stories go,” Threepio’s assessments of situations are both coldly rational and  bypass our own management and repression of fears about the heroes’ future victories. He functions in the films, not simply as a robot who can serve the heroes’ logistical needs in achieving their goals (something which the audience could not ), but as the deep soul’s expressions about the anxiety of survival (something the audience is sensing, whether conscious of that fact or not). One other aspect of Threepio’s embodiment of the Fool relates to the comic aspect I mentioned before. In his truth-telling and breaking of social protocols, he never conveys heaviness, anger, or hostility. This lightness of delivery makes it easy to ignore his hypervigilance and even find humor in it. While Threepio “poo-poos” the heroes’ plans as “madness,” not once is he banished from the fellowship. Campbell spoke metaphorically about this tolerance in A Joseph Campbell Companion: Reflections on the Art of Living : "As you proceed through life, following your own path, birds will shit on you. Don’t bother to brush it off. Getting a comedic view of your situation gives you spiritual distance. Having a sense of humor saves you" (20). By allowing the flighty Threepio to do his worry-wart thing, both the other characters and the audience can laugh at and give spiritual distance to the defeatism that would cripple their enterprise. “Yes-And” courage My fellow MythBlast authors and JCF colleagues Joanna Gardner  and Stephanie Zajchowski  are huge proponents of the Yes-And model of holding ideas, taken from the world of improv theater. This approach allows for a tension of opposites to hold in the space of ideas and feelings. While Threepio can be seen as a “But” character in his nature, another overall purpose of his unfiltered Fool neurosis is to allow both his fellow characters and us audience members to be “Yes-And.” Yes, your concerns are valid, AND we are moving forward. And if the heroes (and we as their “confederates” in the cinema) can hold the paradox of fear and faith—with some humor to help things along—then that amplifies the heroic experience of the story. Who knew the Fool could make us laugh and  feel more courageous? MythBlast authored by: Scott Neumeister  is a literary scholar, author, TEDx speaker, mythic pathfinder and Editor of the MythBlast series from Tampa, Florida, where he earned his Ph.D. in English from the University of South Florida in 2018. His specialization in multiethnic American literature and mythology comes after careers as an information technology systems engineer and a teacher of English and mythology at the middle school and college levels. Scott coauthored Let Love Lead: On a Course to Freedom with Gary L. Lemons and Susie Hoeller, and he has served as a facilitator for the Joseph Campbell Foundation’s Myth and Meaning book club at Literati. This MythBlast was inspired by Creative Mythology and the archetype of The Fool . Latest Podcast This lecture, recorded at the Esalen Institute in 1981, features Joseph Campbell delving into Jung’s concepts of the Anima and Animus, the shadow in psychology, and the role of myth in helping us navigate unexpected life challenges. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "As you proceed through life, following your own path, birds will shit on you. Don’t bother to brush it off. Getting a comedic view of your situation gives you spiritual distance. Having a sense of humor saves you." -- Joseph Campbell A Joseph Campbell Companion , 20 Parzival - Medieval Troubadour Traditions of Love (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Werewolves Within (2021) The alchemy of horror and comedy I admit, somewhat wryly: I generally avoid horror. I don’t seek out slasher films, and I’d rather skip the books that keep me awake with my heart racing—I get my adrenaline hits elsewhere. But horror with  comedy? That’s a different alchemy altogether. There is something fascinating in the juxtaposition—the grotesque sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the ridiculous. When horror and humor converge, something mythic stirs. Precisely in this liminal space—between fear and laughter—I find myself intrigued with the archetype of the Healer. An unlikely hero Director Josh Ruben’s  film Werewolves Within , based on Ubisoft’s video game, became, unexpectedly, a personal and archetypal touchstone for me. Set in a snowed-in mountain town wracked with suspicion, the story pivots not on the werewolf itself but on the psychological unraveling of a community under pressure. At its core is Finn Wheeler (Sam Richardson), a conflict-averse, painfully polite forest ranger. He arrives with no sword, no bravado, and no desire to dominate. He listens. He mediates. He believes—almost foolishly—in kindness. And this insistence on decency, absurd as it may appear amid violence and mistrust, situates him within the archetype of the Healer. Finn’s trajectory evokes Campbell’s hero’s journey, but with an essential inversion. His heroic arc is presence over conquest. He doesn’t actually slay the monster, but instead holds ground for human decency amidst fracture ( The Hero with a Thousand Faces , 210). This is the healer-hero—what C.G. Jung identified in psychological terms as the Wounded Healer archetype, wherein one’s vulnerability becomes the conduit for transformation ( The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious , 20). Finn’s awkwardness, his persistent hopefulness, allows him to mirror back the townspeople’s fear without becoming absorbed by it. Shadow and the ritual of laughter Horror, of course, is saturated with shadow. Jung’s conception of the shadow self—the disavowed, unconscious aspects of our psyche—resonates deeply in the figure of the werewolf. As half-human, half-beast, the werewolf embodies our repressed instincts, our animal rage, our socially unpalatable desires (Jung, 131). Such creatures often surface, not coincidentally, in isolated, already-fractured communities. The monster is not merely a threat from without; it is a projection of the internal rot. As Jung notes, we are prone to externalizing our shadow, making monsters of others to avoid confronting the monsters within (Jung, 42). Aristotle’s Poetics  offers a powerful lens as well. His concept of catharsis—that tragedy evokes pity and fear in order to purge them—maps onto the function of horror ( Aristotle , 1449b). Horror disorients, provokes, even wounds, but it does so in service to psychic release. As Jacquie Walters writes , “Horror gives us a way to confront fear and trauma from a place of safety. It lets us feel powerful in the face of the unthinkable.” And comedy, layered atop horror, often completes the arc. Adam Safron’s theory of humor as a mechanism for anxiety reduction (RAR) aligns here: laughter functions as a regulatory system, a counterweight to terror, and in some cases, a re-enchantment of meaning ( Safron ). In Werewolves Within , the audience’s laughter becomes ritual. It creates the emotional flexibility necessary to metabolize the fear. The absurdity makes the horror digestible and in turn opens the door to both the healing that horror invites and the release found in laughter, as Safron suggests. Crises and the Healer’s kindness  These archetypal energies came to roost in my life both metaphorical and literal ways, offering support and insights in an unprecedented moment. Werewolves Within  was shot at Spillian , the Catskills estate I steward. Production wrapped three days before New York shut down in response to COVID-19. Our staff, back on site to restore the mansion, got sent home by mandate, leaving half-filled coffee mugs and scattered tools. When they returned months later, the scene was uncanny—like walking into an echo of Pompeii. The film’s presence lingered in the air, suspended. And more tangibly, the rental revenue from the production helped sustain us through the first uncertain months of the pandemic. I’m finding it fascinating to see this through a mythic lens. The film’s plot unfolds in a town already weakened by the threat of a gas pipeline—politically divided, ideologically embattled—then thrown into full disarray by an unseen predator. It echoes, with unexpected resonance, both the early pandemic and the current divides shattering the United States: communitas  unraveling, fear of contagion and the other, trust eroded at the root. In both, the question is not simply who is the monster, but whether community can survive the knowledge that it is not immune to monstrosity. And yet, Werewolves Within  does not descend into hopelessness. Its hero is not triumphant in the traditional sense. He does not defeat the darkness so much as illuminate the possibility of wholeness within it. The Healer archetype does not promise resolution—it offers resilience. It reminds us, gently and absurdly, that presence, kindness, and unflagging awkwardness may, in the end, be our most potent form of magic. The Healer archetype does not promise resolution—it offers resilience. Werewolves Within  was released just as the pandemic was beginning to subside, at a time when large gatherings were still rare and cautious. Director Josh Ruben and his collaborators never had the chance to celebrate its release together. A year later, Josh returned to Spillian to screen the film—a gesture full of warmth and generosity, jump scares and laughter—and in doing so, launched a broader tour of screenings in New York City and beyond. Kindness, again, at the center. A small but powerful echo of the film’s heart. MythBlast authored by: Leigh Melander, PhD has an eclectic background in the arts and organizational development, working with inviduals and organizations in the US and internationally for over 20 years. She has a doctorate in cultural mythology and psychology and wrote her dissertation on frivolity as an entry into the world of imagination. Her writings on mythology and imagination can be seen in a variety of publications, and she has appeared on the History Channel, as a mythology expert. She also hosts a radio who on an NPR community affiliate: Myth America, an exploration into how myth shapes our sense of identity. Leigh and her husband opened Spillian, an historic lodge and retreat center celebrating imagination in the Catskills, and works with clients on creative projects. She is honored to have previously served as the Vice President of the Joseph Campbell Foundation Board of Directors. This MythBlast was inspired by Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine and the archetype of The Healer. Latest Podcast In this episode, we sit down with Dr. Max Klau to explore the intersection of leadership, service, and inner transformation. Max’s work centers on the transformational path of servant leadership: helping individuals integrate their inner life with outer impact. A Harvard-trained scholar in human development and leadership, Max has spent decades designing programs that support leaders who are committed to service. He most recently served as Chief Program Officer at New Politics Leadership Academy, where he worked to bring more military veterans and national service alumni into politics.His upcoming book, Developing Servant Leaders at Scale, offers a roadmap for growing compassionate, courageous leaders. Deeply influenced by Joseph Campbell, Max views leadership as a mythic process—an invitation to face your shadow, grow from adversity, and return with wisdom in service of something greater than yourself. In this conversation, we explore Max's journey, what true servant leadership looks like, and how building better leaders might just be one of the most powerful ways to heal our fractured world. To find our more about Max visit: https://www.maxklau.com/ Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Getting a comedic view of your situation gives you spiritual distance. Having a sense of humor saves you." -- Joseph Campbell A Joseph Campbell Companion , 20 Parzival: A Tale with Many Tellings See More Videos Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Bill Moyers and Joseph Campbell in conversation during the filming of  Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth  in 1980. (Photo credit: Don Perdue) The death of Bill Moyers is not only the passing of a journalist or public intellectual. It is the loss of a distinctive American voice that, for decades, has asked us to think more deeply, remember our humanity, and explore with wonder the mysteries of life. The New York Times obituary, quoting Peter J. Boyer, the journalist and author, called Moyers “a rare and powerful voice, a kind of secular evangelist.” For many of us—especially those working at the intersection of myth and culture—Moyers will always be remembered for The Power of Myth , his 1988 PBS series of conversations with Joseph Campbell. That series didn’t merely introduce Campbell to tens of millions; it reintroduced Americans to their own inner lives, as well as the power of mythic imagination. Moyers was not just a host in those conversations; he was a curious, participative co-creator, coaxing and shaping the conversation with generosity and gravity. It takes a rare combination of intelligence and humility to listen well, to ask questions that are neither interrogations nor performances but genuine invitations. In his exchanges with Campbell, he never tried to outshine the material or outsmart Campbell; instead, he allowed the power of myth to shine through one of its most eloquent proponents. And in doing so, he modeled for us what it means to be a genuinely curious, thoughtful stakeholder in cultural life. What has always struck me most about The Power of Myth is the way it illuminated myth’s capacity to offer consolation in the face of life’s complexities and human limitations. Moyers asked the questions we all wanted to ask, and he asked them not as a broadcaster but as a fellow human being, trying to make sense of the human project. We mourn the loss of a man who helped so many of us hear the mythic resonance living beneath the noise and bustle of modern life. And in remembering Bill Moyers, may we also remember to be awake to wonder, to ask better questions, and to keep alive the power of myth. MythBlast authored by: Bradley Olson, PhD.  is an author, speaker, and a psychotherapist. He serves as the Publications Director for the Joseph Campbell Foundation and the host of JCF's flagship podcast, Pathways With Joseph Campbell. Dr. Olson holds a Ph.D. in Mythological Studies from Pacifica Graduate Institute. Dr. OIson is also a depth psychologist in private practice in Flagstaff, Arizona, where he has lived since 1995. Dr. Olson has graduate degrees in psychology from the University of Oklahoma. Dr. Olson offers mythic life coaching at What's Mything in Your Life ( bradleyolsonphd.com ). Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Valentine’s Day This month being the calendar home for Valentine’s Day, the Joseph Campbell Foundation’s MythBlast series is looking at The Lover At The Movies. The origins of Valentine’s Day are a bit murky, but they seem to reach back into the early Roman celebrations of Romulus and Remus and the fertility festival of Lupercalia observed on the ides of February, the fifteenth of February. Lupercus was an ancient Roman god worshipped by shepherds as the promoter of fertility in sheep and the protector of their flocks. Lupercalia was itself a modification of another, even older (dating back to Etruscan or Sabine cultures) springtime cleansing ritual, Februa, which lent its name to the month of the year. As Christianity was emerging in the empire, several Christian martyrs named Valentine or Valentinus were created during the first few centuries of the early church, and we don’t exactly know which one the fourteenth day in February is named for. Regardless, the modus operandi of the early Christian Church was to co-opt venerable pagan celebrations, rename them, and redefine them in Christian terms in order to make the new celebration seem familiar to pagans and facilitate a broader acceptance of Christianity. I am particularly fond of one legend that describes an imprisoned, soon to be martyred, Valentine sending a greeting of love to a young woman whom he adored. He signed the missive, “From your Valentine.” Not only is this a bittersweet story explaining the origins of the phrase, but it also discloses the distressing aspects of love—I recall Joseph Campbell remarking in A Joseph Campbell Companion that romantic love is an ordeal—aspects one would rather overlook for the contemplation of more exhilarating, affirmative, blissful aspects of love. Loving another and communicating that love is often not easy, especially if the thrilling, enthralling, novelty of love has settled into a predictable familiarity—perhaps just such an examination that Valentine’s Day affords. The Philadelphia Story It is certainly the examination that the 1940 movie The Philadelphia Story affords. I think this movie sets the standard for all romantic comedies. Its wit, its pathos, its celebration of love and, to borrow a phrase from Campbell, following one’s bliss is, I think, unrivalled in the genre. In addition, one has the pleasure of watching the unparalleled appeal of legendary actors performing at the peak of their thespian powers. The imperious Katharine Hepburn (of her cheekbones, one Hollywood wag said they were the greatest calcium deposits since the White Cliffs of Dover) overcame her reputation as box office poison. Cary Grant was his irresistible, dapper self. Jimmy Stewart won the Best Actor Oscar for his role as writer/journalist McCauley Connor, and Ruth Hussey flawlessly delivered brilliant, sparking lines of dialogue that helped the movie win the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay. Released in 1940, the film has its baggage, of course, sprinkled with common early-mid twentieth century themes of male privilege, masculine philandering, implied domestic violence (which the movie attempts to atone for), and Uncle Willie’s creepy lecherousness. However, despite some of these limitations, we watch Katharine Hepburn in the role of the rich, entitled heiress, Tracy Lord, transcend gender role expectations and limitations of the time and assert her own independence in matters of the heart, spirit and mind. As the movie opens, we find Tracy Lord, a wealthy, arrogant socialite, preparing to remarry. Concurrently,her ex-husband, C.K. Dexter Haven (Grant)—who, it’s implied, had until very recently been in rehab in Argentina—smuggles two tabloid reporters into the old Main Line Lord family mansion. It’s a harebrained idea to obtain exclusive pictures and copy of the nuptials in return for Spy magazine’s publisher killing an unflattering story about her philandering father while saving Tracy from public humiliation. As the wedding weekend unfolds, Tracy grapples with her renewed affection for Dexter, who, in overcoming his demons, has become kinder, patient, and more accepting of human frailty. He’s finally become the man that she always hoped he could be. As the weekend unfolds, she discovers Connor also has his charms and realizes that class and privilege should not dictate who one loves. Tracy recognized her unattainable standards and perfectionism stood in the way of her own individuation—her in-her-selfness, and the discovery of lasting, imperfect, human, love. As a wedding gift, Dexter gives Tracy a model of the yacht The True Love, on which they spent their honeymoon—a beautiful, sleek sailboat that she called “yar.” A yar vessel is quick, agile, easy to steer or reef the sails. In the eastern United States where this film is set, a boat is considered yar when it is well-balanced on the helm, quick, and handy. Regarding the model of The True Love , Tracy says, “My, she was yar!” “She was yar, alright,” Dexter replies. “I wasn’t, was I?” “Not very.” Tracy's dawning awareness, the inception of self-objectivity, eventually replaces an egoic self-subjectivity that, until now, always scuttled love and relationship. Tracy’s moment of revelation occurs in the middle of a Dionysian revel, her pre-wedding party: “Oh, it’s just that a lot of things I always thought were terribly important, I find now are—and the other way around, and—oh, what the dickens.” She realizes that her conventional, striving, ambitious, vain fiancé is not the man she loves. She loves Dexter, the patient, kind, clever man, who, like Eros emerging from Chaos, becomes the driving force of creation; in this case, the creation of self-hood in tandem. The two have not become one, but rather each has become, as Nietzsche put it, who one is. It's a dynamic and ongoing creative act of becoming, of actively shaping oneself through self-overcoming and embracing the uniqueness of oneself and the other. Love as a people-growing machine Rainer Maria Rilke w rote to a young poet that Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate — ?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world for himself for another’s sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things. Only in this sense, as the task of working at themselves (“to hearken and to hammer day and night”), might young people use the love that is given them. Merging and surrendering and every kind of communion is not for them (who must save and gather for a long, long time still), is the ultimate, is perhaps that for which human lives as yet scarcely suffice. Love is the inducement to individuation, to becoming who one is, and while one is engaged in that process, one finds that love brings out both the best and the worst of oneself. “The whole catastrophe,” as Zorba said. Love is the inducement to individuation, to becoming who one is But love won’t make us beautiful, it won’t make us complete, it won’t make us content with our fate, at least not on its own. That’s where the ordeal comes in. It’s not a struggle with another to mold, shape, or bend them into the person we want them to be. Instead, it’s a struggle with oneself, dealing with the shadowy selves that emerge in sometimes surprising or novel ways. The lover can be the incitation to that inner-self work. The more of it we do, the better love is. In the words of McCauley Connor, “That’s the blank, unholy surprise of it!” Thanks for reading. MythBlast authored by: Bradley Olson, Ph.D.  is an author, speaker, and a psychotherapist. He serves as the Publications Director for the Joseph Campbell Foundation and the host of JCF's flagship podcast, Pathways With Joseph Campbell . Dr. Olson holds a Ph.D. in Mythological Studies from Pacifica Graduate Institute. Dr. OIson is also a depth psychologist in private practice in Flagstaff, Arizona, where he has lived since 1995. Dr. Olson has graduate degrees in psychology from the University of Oklahoma. Dr. Olson offers mythic life coaching at What's Mything in Your Life ( bradleyolsonphd.com ) This MythBlast was inspired by Creative Mythology and the archetype of The Lover . Latest Podcast This lecture, recorded at the Esalen Institute in 1981, features Joseph Campbell delving into Jung’s concepts of the Anima and Animus, the shadow in psychology, and the role of myth in helping us navigate unexpected life challenges. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "If you go into marriage with a program, you will find that it won’t work. Successful marriage is leading innovative lives together, being open, non-programmed. It’s a free fall: how you handle each new thing as it comes along. As a drop of oil on the sea, you must float, using intellect and compassion to ride the waves." -- Joseph Campbell A Joseph Campbell Companion , 47 Psyche & Symbol (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Casablanca (1942) Warner Brothers Pictures We are living in a moment where trickster energy is weaving through much of the momentum in the world. Where truth lies, who holds power, and whether our perceptions of what’s happening around us is uncertain, as it shatters many of our ideas about how things work. This energy is truly uncomfortable, as trickster energy often is, but I’m finding myself wondering about both its oppositional and the generative power, as well as its ability to disquiet us, both individually and collectively. The trickster in resistance: Casablanca “Two German Couriers were found murdered in the desert. The unoccupied desert. This is the customary roundup of refugees, liberals, and of course, beautiful young girls by Inspector Renault.” This is how Casablanca   (1942) begins, rounding up suspicious characters (or as Renault says later, in a wonderful trickster metaphor, the “usual suspects”), in the ongoing dance between compliance and complicity, self-interest and selflessness, courage and defiance that runs through the film. While Renault is the most obvious trickster figure in the film, ultimately, almost no one is exactly who they seem to be, and truth and perception are fluid and unsettling. Ambiguity reigns; Sidney Rosensweig in Casablanca and Other Major Films of Michael Curti z , cites the different names that each character gives Rick (Richard, Ricky, Mr. Rick, Herr Rick and boss) as evidence of the different meanings that he has for each person (82). Laszlo is indomitable, elegant, and utterly vulnerable not to the Nazis, but to Ilsa, who in turn chooses passion over righteousness. And of course Rick, who “sticks his neck out for nobody,” finds the courage for both of them to reach for that rightness at the cost of their happiness.  Resisting “The” trickster What is most intriguing about the film, though, is that the archetype is not fixed, but instead an energy that touches everyone in the film.  Place itself is liminal. Casablanca operates under its own ever-shifting rules, outside of both the structure and destruction of Europe during the Second World War. Vichy, the headquarters of the French government collaborating with the Nazis, is the site of volcanic springs that offer mineralized water that promise health and new beginnings. And always, the plane to Lisbon offers an escape to order and the freedom that the United States promised in the era.  I am reminded of David L. Miller ’s insights in lectures where he has challenged the crystallization and literalization of archetypes into static figures by stressing the importance of thinking of archetypal versus archetype. It shifts archetypes from “what” into “how,” and even “why.” Understanding archetype this way, as movement rather than a fixed set of character traits, as more of a verb rather than a noun, deepens our intuiting of the power of archetypal thinking. Instead of being a conclusion, archetypes are instead flowing metaphors that exist and move both within us and outside ourselves. They provide openings rather than answers. By resisting our inclinations to say, “so-and-so is a trickster,” we can look at the movement and essence animating not just people, but also places, stories, and ourselves. Archetypes then become genuinely mythic, as metaphors that touch upon ideas that are larger than we can completely wrap our arms around, rather than simply stereotypes.  Instead of being a conclusion, archetypes are instead flowing metaphors that exist and move both within us and outside ourselves Tricksters, human nature, shadow, and resistance C.G. Jung argues  that the trickster archetype is undifferentiated human consciousness, reflecting the earliest humans and what he perceived as psyches that had yet developed. He states: The so-called civilized man has forgotten the trickster. He remembers him only figuratively and metaphorically, when, irritated by his own ineptitude, he speaks of fate playing tricks on him or of things being bewitched. He never suspects that his own hidden and apparently harmless shadow has qualities whose dangerousness exceeds his wildest dreams. As soon as people get together in masses and submerge the individual, the shadow is mobilized, and, as history shows, may even be personified and incarnated. Perhaps, if we resist the temptation to perceive ourselves as “civilized” and somehow beyond this hermetic, base-line part of being human, we can begin to wrestle with our own shadows and reshape the mobilization of cultural shadows.  But ultimately, I am inspired by Campbell, with the idea that the trickster “represents the power of the dynamic of the total psyche to overthrow programs” ( 00:00:32-00:00:40 ). We can join Rick and Renault, unleash the usual suspects, and exhale, “Vive la résistance.” MythBlast authored by: Leigh Melander, PhD has an eclectic background in the arts and organizational development, working with inviduals and organizations in the US and internationally for over 20 years. She has a doctorate in cultural mythology and psychology and wrote her dissertation on frivolity as an entry into the world of imagination. Her writings on mythology and imagination can be seen in a variety of publications, and she has appeared on the History Channel, as a mythology expert. She also hosts a radio who on an NPR community affiliate: Myth America, an exploration into how myth shapes our sense of identity. Leigh and her husband opened Spillian, an historic lodge and retreat center celebrating imagination in the Catskills, and works with clients on creative projects. She is honored to have previously served as the Vice President of the Joseph Campbell Foundation Board of Directors. This MythBlast was inspired by Creative Mythology and the archetype of The Trickster . Latest Podcast New Episodes of Pathways will begin again in June. In this episode from Season 1, (Episode 8) Joseph Campbell speaks at the Wainwright House in Rye, New York, in 1966, discussing mystical experiences. Host, Brad Olson, offers an introduction and commentary after the talk in this episode of the Pathways podcast. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "Mythology, in other words, is not an outmoded quaintness of the past, but a living complex of archetypal, dynamic images, native to, and eloquent of, some constant, fundamental stratum of the human psyche. And that stratum is the source of the vital energies of our being." -- Joseph Campbell The Ecstasy of Being , 18 The Center of The World Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Dear Zindagi (2016) "A very old friend of my grandfather’s … Pyarelalji got the chance to climb Mt. Everest with a Chinese trekking expedition group … Pyarelalji paced ahead of the group with much enthusiasm, while the Chinese people kept waving from behind and shouting, ‘Don’t go ahead!’ … He thought they were cheering him … Suddenly, Pyarelalji saw a growling snow leopard … he started waving his hands frantically and shouting ‘Help! Help!’ but the Chinese people thought he was just happy … Then the snow leopard ate up poor Pyarelalji.”                                                                                    Dr. Jug, Dear Zindagi In an unconventional take on Selfhood and healing in Indian cinema, the 2016 film Dear Zindagi   (meaning “Dear Life”) opens up a space for modern viewers to engage in a softer foray into the inner vulnerabilities, insecurities, and emotional struggles alchemical in finding oneself, much like the archetypal healing journey. This is explored through Kaira’s (played by actress Alia Bhatt) journey of inner discovery as she begins therapy with Dr. Jehangir Khan (played by actor Shah Rhuk Khan), fondly known as Dr. Jug, a nontraditional and insightful therapist (a contemporary take on the Healer archetype), set in the serene backdrop of Goa, India.  Masks off, Self in: Beginning the healing journey In her first therapy session, Kaira is seen struggling to open up and finding it hard to accept that she is seeking therapy. Dr. Jug, through his weirdly humorous and tragic story of Mr. Pyarelalji in the epigraph above, tries to put her worries at ease. Making a safe space for her to begin her healing journey, he confronts her truth. Every therapeutic beginning is symbolic of an archetypal hero’s initiation into the abyss of the Self, as put forth by Campbell in The Hero with a Thousand Faces . It is a journey to the psychic gold, attained by getting through the illusions and our farce possessions, towards inner expansive peace—the wise grace to an enlightened consciousness. Dr. Jug encourages her to understand that the journey begins with self compassion, rather than being harsh and critical. This embarks the tending to the relationship with the Self–indeed the first step in the healing process. To find wisdom in acceptance of one’s broken pieces, fragmented feelings, pain and unsuccessful choices; to not punish oneself for it or else they will consume from within, just like the snow leopard did; to experience the radiance in preparation, in the process and in being. Remember my earlier statement that the experience of mystery comes not from expecting it but through yielding all your programs, because your programs are based on fear and desire. Drop them, and the radiance comes. Thou Art That: Transforming Religious Metaphor , 16 Once the fear of judgement is dropped in a safe sacred space of therapy, the mysteries of the Self speak, helping the patient to listen to their own bare truths, like Kiara does by acknowledging her emotional struggles of failed romantic relationships and the loss of a major professional opportunity due to it. She finally accepts her own struggles that she was initially sharing as of her friend’s, a narrative she spun to share with Dr. Jug in embarrassment. She slowly opens herself to the “radiance” of the path to restoration. Being in the presence of the woundedness first, to relieve the pain, to be free of the fears that block the inner light, Kaira starts by owning her own.  Alchemical selves coniunctio: the Healer as rite to Self Jung, in Modern Man in Search of a Soul ,   relates how a harmonious communication between two selves (the mirrors of the soul)   can be transformative, especially of a doctor and a patient. This kind of connection translated into a romantic set-up leaves an indelible mark on the Self, of which the projections, interactions and emotional expressions reveal a lot much about the unconscious awakening (49-50). For Kaira, her romantic breakup to be with another potential partner leads to the failure of this new relationship, too. While she was thriving at work (as a cinematographer, wanting to be a movie director) with her potential partner, she fails to commit to the new relationship, and he finds love elsewhere. This disturbs her immensely, and all goes rough when she loses the big work opportunity and has to move to Goa where she has had bitter memories of her childhood. Her incurable insomnia leads her to Dr. Jug, which is a turning point in her life, the meeting of the alchemical selves.  No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell…  Collected Works of C.G. Jung Vol. 9/2 , 43  Gold from pain: Woundedness and healing In context to the evolution in the sacred Self, in the Christ Imago  as was explored by Jung, true growth lies in the light, as well as in the shadow. Kaira’s series of unexpected and past emotional curveballs added up to a journey through the dark–the lost ways through which comes new life, the Self. That is the privilege of flowing, exploring and knowing your flow. When everything is lost,  And all seems darkness,  Then comes the new life And all that is needed                          A Joseph Campbell Companion: Reflections on the Art of Living , 39 The Chiron, Dr. Jug: Wounded vision to wholeness. As Kaira takes an archetypal hero trip (psychic dive) into her Self, encouraged by Dr. Jug, she comes close to her wounds by revisiting her childhood. Engaging in conversations with her parents from whom she had distanced herself. Dr. Jug participates in her journey by sharing his insights on his own emotional downfalls (his divorce and child custody experiences) in life. To give her a glimpse of the natural human trajectory of suffering and its authenticity; revealing his archetypal wounded healer essence. This “inner security” that Dr. Jug gives Kaira through his own woundedness is instrumental for her openness to empathy and alignment through her own disintegrating childhood episodes.   It is his own hurt that gives the measure of his power to heal. This, and nothing else, is the meaning of the Greek myth of the wounded physician.  Collected Works of C.G. Jung Vol. 16 , 116 Transference, an inner communion: Through you, I saw me Campbell follows Jung on understanding the goal of therapy and the culmination of the last analysis, stating that the concluding realization is aimed at individuation. Individual's attempts at Self, are conceived within and journeyed alone. Kaira tends to her wounds of abandonment by parents as a child through the wisdom of life experiences initiated by Dr. Jug; via complexity, deep trauma with emotional honesty. His efforts to help her reconcile with her parents to attend to her abandonment issues trickling into her romances as well, eventually work well. The result is rather a complicated but positive change in her wanting or desiring a long term relationship with Dr. Jug, expressed as her liking towards him (transference).   true growth lies in the light, as well as in the shadow Sacred trauma: A gift to the healing Self This deep awareness of her feelings, wherein the unresolved past plays out in a safe present space, shows a sacred opportunity she chose, to mend and to heal. It rewired her approach to life, and such is the magic of healing (Campbell, Reflections , 74). MythBlast authored by: I am Priyanka Gupta , a recent PhD graduate in Psychology with a specialization in Jungian psychology and mythology from the University of Delhi, India (2023). My doctoral thesis explored the hero archetype, delving into the Campbellian structure of the hero's journey through the distinctive prism of Hindu mythology and Native American mythology. As a researcher, I am captivated by the interplay of the meaning of symbols, life, and religions, drawing inspiration and contemplating on the perspectives laid out by Joseph Campbell and prominent Jungian thinkers. Beyond academia and research, I am a writing enthusiast and a passionate painter. My diverse interests converge in a desire to share new perspectives and ideas, propelling me towards a future in teaching and knowledge. This MythBlast was inspired by Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine and the archetype of The Healer. Latest Podcast In this bonus episode of Pathways, Joseph Campbell speaks at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California. The date of the lecture is unknown. In it, he explores the sound of AUM in relation to states of consciousness, yoga, and the power of metaphor. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "The experience of mystery comes not from expecting it but through yielding all your programs, because your programs are based on fear and desire. Drop them, and the radiance comes." -- Joseph Campbell Thou Art That , 16 The Heavenly Moment See More Videos Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Anora (2024) Neon When I think of the Healer archetype, I picture the cover to John Lee Hooker’s 1989 album of that name. The Healer ’s cover features a shadowed photograph of this elder statesman of the blues with arms extending outward very much in the manner of a magician casting a spell. That blurry portrait is framed by a mineralized, geologic pattern reminiscent of Paleolithic cave sites from Altamira to Tierra del Fuego. Something instinctually tells me that healing is a boon of experience: to be granted the title of Healer, one must have lived thoroughly. The Healer, longed for by those in search of cures, is yet an intimidating, perhaps unrelatable, archetype, providing a vital act of care but not typically the protagonist of the myth. How then, you may rightly ask, can I suggest that the titular heroine of Sean Baker’s Anora (2024), a twenty-three-year-old sex worker played by Mikey Madison, is one of the great Healers we have seen on the silver screen in many years? The euphoria of eros Anora Mikheeva (she prefers “Ani”) lives in Brooklyn’s predominantly Russian-American enclave of Brighton Beach and is a stripper at a luxury Manhattan lap-dance club called Headquarters (HQ). After meeting Ivan “Vanya” Zakharov (Mark Eydelshteyn), she becomes his paid escort for sexual services. The son of a prominent Russian oligarch, Vanya is a Peter Pan with G-Wagons and Maseratis he is not allowed to drive, spoiled for two decades and one year within the garden of earthly delights. When a marathon of partying leads to an impulsive private jet flight to Las Vegas, Anora’s adolescent Prince Charming proposes. Her rejoinder, “You want to make me your little wifey?”, is met with midnight vows at the Chapel of Love. Afterwards, they stroll down Las Vegas’ Fremont Street, declaring their nuptials to strangers and kissing rapturously beneath the gigantic LED-screened canopy of this pedestrian mall. The digital firework motifs overhead evoke a hypnotic potion of mythic motifs replicating the euphoria of eros. News of their marriage reaches Vanya’s parents, who promptly dispatch henchmen to facilitate an annulment. Vanya flees into the wintry light of day, leading to a scene of Looney Tunes hijinks (“She bites!”), but as one of them, Igor, forcibly restrains Ani, there is the discomfiting premonition of a sexual assault. Thankfully, this does not occur, but Anora’s tone markedly shifts, becoming, in my eyes, a film about the underworld journey that is archetypal to the initiation myths of Healers. The wound of the healer Joan Halifax (now Rishi Joan) assisted Joseph Campbell with his unfinished The Historical Atlas of World Mythology , and amongst his informal disciples has, in my mind, most vitally expanded upon his shamanic speculations. The evocative title of her 1982 survey, Shaman: The Wounded Healer , unconsciously materialized when I revisited Anora. In Halifax’s estimation, the shaman, while a “wounded healer,” is yet a healing healer. I began to see Anora anew. Her story, which I initially viewed as a Cinderella fairytale veering abruptly into nocturnal nightmare, became instead a spellbinding cinematic patterning of the shamanic initiation of a young healer. We would do well to remember Campbell’s insistence that “one of the oldest recorded hero journey tales—possibly predating Gilgamesh—is the Sumerian myth of the sky goddess Inanna’s descent to the netherworld” ( Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine , 60). Mikey Madison’s Ani metamorphoses in the film’s second half into a latter day Inanna undergoing the spiritual dismemberments of a healer’s shamanic journey as the motley search party finally discovers the delinquent Vanya at HQ. At the site where once her sexuality assumed borderline supernatural powers, Ani journeys through this erotic underworld and is forced into an archetypal confrontation with the monster in the labyrinth. In a drunken stupor, Vanya is receiving a lapdance from Ani’s nemesis Diamond, symbolic of the mythic dragon who hoards jewels and captured lovers. A fight ensues wherein Ani’s face is clawed by Diamond as Vanya is escorted outside. Her claw-marked cheek is symbolic of the dismemberment of the psyche undergone during shamanic initiation. With this “wound,” Ani is endowed with an increasing dexterity of agency in the face of Vanya’s betrayal and his parents’ attempts to dehumanize her. Anora as Inanna In “The Descent of Inanna,” Campbell charts how “at each of the seven thresholds that Inanna crosses into the underworld she must remove an item of clothing or jewelry so that ultimately she arrives at her sister’s kingdom naked, divested of all worldly items” ( Goddesses , 61). Paradoxically, Anora, rather than stripping her clothing as we have seen her do in the film’s first half, passes through the thresholds of the search for Vanya across New York’s nocturnal underworlds essentially robed in royal garments. With a flowing black mink coat, Madison’s character is unconsciously echoing the Tungus shamans of her distant ancestral heritage, who performed their own healing ceremonies whilst donning the hides of Siberian animals. The pink tinsel in her hair, while initially an accoutrement meant to enhance the sensorium at HQ, becomes during her journey a symbolic diadem, gleaming with the celestial light once worshipped as the domain of Inanna. Furthermore, as part of Anora ’s inversion of Inanna’s threshold clothing removals, during an exhausting walk along the waterfront on a frigid winter evening, Ani relents and eventually accepts Igor’s offer of a scarf to keep her warm; the very same scarf with which she was gagged earlier in the day. Yet in transfiguring this object of previous violence, Ani’s scarf is now a talismanic vestment of healing that aids in her heroic weathering of this long night in the underworld. Late in the film, Igor, to her annoyance, suggests that he prefers “Anora” to “Ani” because the Russian name translates to pomegranate fruit, and/or bright light. For me, these alternating definitions are symbolic of the duality within Anora the wounded-yet-healing Healer. The Persephonesque pomegranate, a Central Asian mythological symbol of erotic bliss, is also an antioxidizing fruit of medicinal value. But like the apple tree of Inanna that aids in her rejoicing in vulvic wonderment in the ancient Sumerian myth, the pomegranate aspect of Anora’s psyche is also symbolic of the bright spiritual light within that she has steadily been kindling throughout her heroine’s journey. Healing as alchemical Anora ’s ambiguous ending leaves the audience unsure if Ani has returned to her previous lifeways, or if her underworld journey has ended a cycle and she re-enters the home realm transfigured. Anora-Inanna the wounded healer is healing, and she offers us a cinematic archetype of the imperfections (but not impossibilities) of the mystic journey of care. Authentic healing is a conjoining of matter and spirit, yet so often our transactional mindset deceives us into believing the curative is solely achieved on the physical plane. The shamanic initiation of Ani is instead one wherein embodiment becomes sacrament. Her inner light may be dimly perceptible to the viewer, but imperfection’s visibility ought not to obscure the radiant wounds of the healer that Anora is becoming. As the alchemists say, the Great Work continues… The shamanic initiation of Ani is one wherein embodiment becomes sacrament. MythBlast authored by: Teddy Hamstra is a writer and seeker in Los Angeles. He is the recipient of a PhD from the University of Southern California, where he completed and successfully defended a dissertation entitled 'Enchantment as a Form of Care: Joseph Campbell and the Power of Mysticism.' Recently, Teddy has been working for the Joseph Campbell Foundation, spearheading their Research & Development efforts. As an educator and research consultant for creatives, Teddy is driven to communicate the wonder of mythological wisdom in ways that are both accessible to, and which enliven, our contemporary world. This MythBlast was inspired by Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine and the archetype of The Healer. Latest Podcast In this episode, we sit down with Dr. Max Klau to explore the intersection of leadership, service, and inner transformation. Max’s work centers on the transformational path of servant leadership: helping individuals integrate their inner life with outer impact. A Harvard-trained scholar in human development and leadership, Max has spent decades designing programs that support leaders who are committed to service. He most recently served as Chief Program Officer at New Politics Leadership Academy, where he worked to bring more military veterans and national service alumni into politics.His upcoming book, Developing Servant Leaders at Scale, offers a roadmap for growing compassionate, courageous leaders. Deeply influenced by Joseph Campbell, Max views leadership as a mythic process—an invitation to face your shadow, grow from adversity, and return with wisdom in service of something greater than yourself. In this conversation, we explore Max's journey, what true servant leadership looks like, and how building better leaders might just be one of the most powerful ways to heal our fractured world. To find our more about Max visit: https://www.maxklau.com/ Listen Here This Week's Highlights "The healing of the shaman is achieved through art: i.e., mythology and song. “When I began to sing,” said the shaman Semyonov Semyon, “my sickness usually disappeared.” And the practice of the shaman also is by way of art: an imitation or presentation in the field of time and space of the visionary world of his spiritual “seizure.” -- Joseph Campbell The Masks of God: Primitive Mythology , 244 The Goddess and the Madonna See More Videos Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Nosferatu (2024) Maiden Voyage Pictures Robert Eggers’ 2024 masterpiece Nosferatu affords us a powerful mythic mirror of the collective spiritual climate that produced it. Beyond the personal or childhood issues that motivated Eggers to re-make Nosferatu, we must contend with the universal transcendent appeal of the story and characters as they open up the mythic dimensions of the film. Although it is hard to spoil a movie that has been made and remade several times over a hundred years, readers should be warned: there will be spoilers ahead for all versions. The archetypal imagery of Nosferatu reveals and conceals traumatic soul truths that reverberate through our own times. The painful insights that the film uncovers are again covered up by the very aesthetic spectacle of the film: the brilliant production design and pacing, the music and dialogue, audio and visual effects—all combine to constitute the mythic experience of the film. In the fantastic element of disgust and horror, where symbols begin to break down and rot, the proximity of the Real appears. Beneath the garb of imaginary horror, a traumatic truth speaks. Let us remember that in true mythology both logos and mythos are combined. Like body and soul, they are inextricably bound up, both literal and symbolic, imaginary and historic, everywhere all at once. A deep mythological reading of Nosferatu would thus involve us into another crucial dyad, that between individual psychology and the collective structures of our social reality. The creature is the shadow of mass murder, obscurely repressed and buried into the depths of the collective unconscious. Expressed in the form of the plague, this collective shadow is an actual evil of genocidal proportions. Real bodies and actual blood baths pave the way of a vampiric system that threatens the very existence of human life on earth. Real horror hides beneath an imaginary one. Therefore, to consider this film through the lens of horror is to contemplate the shadow of our collective evil, both within and without—are you not scared yet? Nosferatu is the healer archetype in its negative form; it heals by means of death, which puts an end to all fear and anxiety— along with everything else. Rather than being the healing element, Ellen is “healed” by becoming the scapegoat victim of a collective evil. ouroboric evil In the opening and ending scenes of Eggers’ Nosferatu , the fundamental mythos of the film is revealed in ouroboric fashion. Forming a circular ring of mythic violence, the alpha and omega of the film dramatize the sacrificial logic of its narrative vision. Beginning and end together shape a single action: the sacrificial rape and killing of the human soul for the sake of appeasing a monster. Drawing from the archetype of child sacrifice “to heal the land,” the anima figure, Ellen, is surrendered to the insatiable hunger of the Vampyre. This is the tragic and pessimistic core of the Nosferatu myth: the sacrificial death of the human soul, crushed and sucked dry by the evil spirit of the collective shadow of our present system. With the final image of the movie, where the Vampyre is melted into Ellen’s lifeless body, having drunk all her blood, the myth of Nosferatu is complete. Both moments form a ouroboric structure of an Evil nature. Any attempt to celebrate a triumph over this pyre of self-immolation is snuffed out, entirely belied by the priceless ransom paid to the demon: a human soul. Although the creature may be dead, Evil ultimately takes the day. The rats will continue to spread the plague following the inexorable laws of microbiology. Nowhere does the film show proof of the magical end of the plague. So the anima dies in vain. Evil claims a prize that is too dear to pay, certainly for Thomas as well as for most audiences who do not share the triumphalism of child sacrifice. Sacrificing virgins There are three most famous adaptations of Bram Stoker’s novel to film, beginning with Henrik Galeen’s 1922 script for F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror . In 1979, the theme was again picked up by Werner Herzog, who saw in it a great challenge for postwar German cinema, Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht , translated into English as Nosferatu the Vampyre . Despite the innovations of both Herzog and Egger, in no version of Nosferatu does Ellen or “Lucy” survive. The sacrifice of the feminine is the most brutal change made in the mythic template of Nosferatu . In Stoker’s original ending, Mina does not die. Following traditional expectations, the destruction of the monster is placed squarely in the hands of the men, giving Jonathan Harker the satisfaction to decapitate the demon himself. The reactionary or “backward” ways of the dangerous archetype of child sacrifice is explicitly admitted by the film as the centerpiece of its horror. As Count Orlok says to Thomas when he touches upon the sacrificial image: “I fear we yet keep close many superstitions here that may seem backward to a young man of your high learning.” (31:52) Both at the beginning and end, as well as during the clandestine Romani ritual, the image of child sacrifice is established as the central mythic archetype of the Nosferatu myth. The new scene of the sacrificial rite— which the Roma themselves wished to end —makes the archetype of child sacrifice a more prominent image in Eggers’ version. This sacrificial scene with the Roma people is his original contribution to the Nosferatu myth. In no other version do we find such a scene with an important difference. The Roma people did not sacrifice their young girl to the demon. Their culture is not identified with the brutality of that ritual. Instead they use the sacrificial victim to lead them to the creature in order to kill it. The Romani offer a model for the only morally acceptable solution: kill the monster without killing the child! The presence of the Roma people as outliers or “errant wanderers” (31:42) gives sacrificial slaughter of children its “pagan” or pre-Christian cultural context. The wise old lie To modern audiences, needless to say, the sacrifice of children for the “salvation of the land” can only have its place in horror fiction. Such ritual practices are absolutely abhorrent to modern sensibilities and no amount of ‘neopaganism’ or ‘multiculturalism’ is going to change that evaluation. Thank God. Horror movies like Nosferatu, therefore, must work very hard to romanticize the gruesome sacrifice of an innocent victim. The chief propagandist of the movie’s ideology, as we should expect, is Dr. von Franz who repeats the famous Oedipal line to Thomas from the beginning of Murnau’s version: “Not so fast, my young friend! No-one outruns his destiny” (3:47). Now near the end of the story, Eggers has the Old Wise von Franz, hysterically filled with religious fervor, yell out to Thomas who desperately runs back to Ellen: “In vain! In vain! You run in vain! You cannot out-run her destiny! Her dark bond with the beast shall redeem us all. For when Sun’s pure light shall break upon the dawn: Redemption. The plague shall be lifted! Redemption. ” (1:57:22) The change from his to her destiny exposes the true horror of the film: the use of the scapegoat mechanism. Far from being vanquished, the genocidal evil of the Vampyre has been naturalized and normalized within the given social order. Branded as an archetypal means of healing salvation for the collective, the sacrificial slaughter of the scapegoat victim becomes the “cure” for the plague. Horror movies like Nosferatu, therefore, must work very hard to romanticize the gruesome sacrifice of an innocent victim. The healing of death means the death of healing. It is the death of the individual soul on the sacrificial pyre of a great collective evil. As Count Orlok had explained to Ellen, the banality of evil is rooted in its blind nature, a force that cannot be killed: “It is not me. It is your nature. […] I am an appetite. Nothing more.” (1:26:42) The death-cure is an evil concoction for the soul’s self-annihilation. It is a suicidal vampyre that finally takes Ellen. The sacrifice of the anima is the price we pay for the functioning of a genocidal status quo. It is the perpetuation of a vampyric cycle of collective violence which is being turned within and without. As the Arch-Shadow of our capitalist system, evil remains shrouded in the obscurity of an anonymous doctrine whose spiritual and material functioning is tearing our society to pieces, and turning our civilization into a soulless void. This is a crucial insight into the archetype of the shadow, as George Monbiot has expressed it: “Its anonymity is both symptom and cause of its power.” A system that profits from collective murder portends the realization of our worst fears and nightmares. In view of the true horrors of the world, we should be afraid. For we might be next. In the end, the sacrifice of Ellen does not offer any metaphysical solace. There is no tragic wisdom, no redemption, no epiphany, no consolation at all. Spellbound to the Vampyre of ideology, our soul will die; the only “healing” you can expect from the vampiric system is death. We have come to the final point where, as Campbell writes, “The human mind … has been united with the secret cause in tragic terror” ( The Mask of God, Vol 1: Primitive Mytholog y, 55). Without redemption, without rebirth from the Mother, the murderous violence of our collective shadow brings about a fundamental loss of soul, both for the individual as well as for the whole society. In the face of true evil Nosferatu can only tell us to brace ourselves: it’s time to be scared and horrified. MythBlast authored by: Norland Téllez is an award-winning writer and animation director who currently teaches Animation and Character Design courses at Otis College of Art and Design, Cal State Fullerton. He is also conducting a Life Drawing Lab at USC School of Cinematic Arts. He earned his Ph.D. from Pacifica Graduate Institute in 2009 with a dissertation on the Popol-Wuh of the K’iche’ Maya, which he is currently translating and illustrating in its archetypal dimensions as the Wisdom of the Peoples. You can learn more at norlandtellez.com . This MythBlast was inspired by Goddesses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine and the archetype of The Healer. Latest Podcast In this first episode of Season Five of Pathways, titled “Metaphor as Myth and Religion,” Joseph Campbell speaks at the Jung Institute of San Francisco in 1985. At 81 years old, Campbell delivers the lecture with a sense of freedom and confidence. The talk closely reflects the themes of his book The Inner Reaches of Outer Space. Host Brad Olson introduces the lecture and offers commentary at the end. Listen Here This Week's Highlights "The dominating idea of the sacrifice is that already noted, of a reciprocal dual offering: an eternal being is given life in this world, and temporal lives are returned to an eternal being. Through various modulations it is thereby suggested that an original downcoming or self-emptying of this kind produced the universe and that through properly conducted ceremonials reproducing that original act, life in the world is renewed." -- Joseph Campbell The Historical Atlas of World Mythology Volume II: The Way of the Seeded Earth Part I: The Sacrifice , 75-76 The Hidden Dimension See More Videos Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

From The Power of Myth An initiation is a shock. Birth is a shock; rebirth is a shock. All that is transformative must be experienced as if for the first time. “On Being Human,” Mythos I, Episode 3 I have often wondered about the best way to celebrate and honor the legacy of Joseph Campbell as a great scholar and teacher of myth. What is the best way to keep his corpus alive for our contemporary world? The approach one may take can range from fanaticism to outright rejection, following the motto “I honor whom I attack.” Perhaps there is a razor’s edge of critical appropriation that would help us cut through the opposition of both sides. We often talk about honoring this legacy or that person, but what does “honoring” even mean nowadays? Does it mean a worshipful conservation of what has been accomplished in the past? Does it mean the restoration and preservation of a bygone past? The antiquarian approach To the conservative approach to Campbell, nothing more is to be desired. It is perfectly happy conserving and preserving Campbell’s legacy such as it is, maintaining it as much as possible in the same state in which he left it. This conservative approach, using Nietzsche’s classification, we may call the antiquarian approach to Campbell’s work as a recepticle of the world of myth and history. Opening up this world of epic historicity, what is at stake in Campbell’s work is our fundamental relationship to the whole of human history. As mediated through Campbell’s monumental work, such as Masks of God , the epic history of humankind spreads before our eyes. From its primeval origins shrouded in the veils of prehistory, reaching back to our evolutionary origins, Campbell’s boon is an initiation into the archetypal imagination of epic mytho-history. In the way we pick up Campbell’s work, we express our philosophy of history; it demonstrates the way in which we understand the value and use of history for life. Going back to Nietzsche’s famous essay, sometimes dubbed “On the Uses and Abuses of History for Life”, in the second part of his Untimely Meditations, he brings up the point of the existential relevance of the pursuit of historical knowledge: “We need history, certainly, but we need it for reasons different from those for which the idler in the garden of knowledge needs it, even though he may look nobly down on our rough and charmless needs and requirements” ( Untimely Meditations , 59). Nietzsche points to the existential needs and requirements which Campbell too came to demand from the living study of myth and history. The monumental approach After meeting the conservative or antiquarian approach to Campbell, a second option casts a more liberal line over the historic corpus, one which seeks to go beyond the necessary tasks of conservation and restoration. This second option attempts to bring the past back to life as if it were an ever-present reality. In a more liberal way, this second approach seeks, in Nietzsche’s words, “that the summit of such a long-ago moment shall be for me still living, bright and great—that is the fundamental idea of the faith in humanity which finds expression in the demand for a monumental history” (68). The monumental approach to Campbell’s legacy would also work to maintain this faith in humanity through the reanimation of Campbell’s voice in mythological studies, building on the conservation efforts carried out by antiquarianism. Revitalizing Campbell’s work for contemporary audiences, monumentalism will freely adapt Campbell’s voice to better suit modern cultural sensibilities, even if it means trimming the tricky political edges of his work. To make an author feel “relevant” to the times, the work must be rearticulated and remade to conform to the “new” timely forms of conventional wisdom. Both liberal and conservative approaches, for all their apparent differences, stand on one and the same ideological platform. In both cases an attempt is made to preserve a certain status quo, to constitute a mythic ism, in the understanding of Campbell’s work. Both liberal and conservative approaches fail to create any new vision of Mythological Studies. Both sides suffer from a certain infertility or barrenness of imagination, blind to the truly transcendent possibility which might sprout out of the decomposing corpus of Joseph Campbell. Where the antiquarian is doing her best to prevent decomposition with all the tools of the trade, the monumental approach tries to reanimate this corpse while being in denial that decomposition is taking place at all. Both sides demonstrate a form of stagnation, an incapacity to produce a new order of understanding of myth and history as a complete whole. This creative impotence is symptomatic of a certain ideological fixation which is shared by both sides. Promoting ultimate contentment with the status quo, the antiquarian and monumental approaches pose no threat to the “spirituality” that sustains the established order of things. The critical path of creative mythology Beyond these first two approaches, Nietzsche proposes a third option, which is bound to trigger the traps of both conservatism and liberalism alike. Failing to catch their usual fare, however, the ostensive opposition between liberal and conservative collapses into the ideological mire of their secret identity. Preserving the kernel of truth which belongs to each side, this third option invites the possibility of death and renewal combined. This “middle path,” working right through conventional oppositions, opens a transcendent possibility for Mythological Studies in the 21st century. Nietzsche called this third approach simply critical , “and this, too, in the service of life” (pg. 75). In this final dialectical approach, the devotion of the antiquarian and the zeal of the monumental are combined. This form of thinking exposes ideology to the sacrificial fires of truth in preparation for a new harvest of the mind. Campbell’s established corpus must be exposed to these flames of critical reflection, where he is offered as a sacrifice to the Gods. Upon this sacred altar of critical thinking, we must learn to surrender our precious belief systems; we must be willing to burn ideology to the ground. Let the flames of critical historical reflection perform their purifying function. As Nietzsche observes: For since we are the outcome of earlier generations, we are also the outcome of their aberrations, passions, and errors, and indeed of their crimes; it is not possible wholly to free oneself from this chain. If we condemn these aberrations and regard ourselves as free of them, this does not alter the fact that we originate in them. (76) We can never regard ourselves as being totally free from the crimes of the past. For we cannot ever break the mythic chain of our existential historicity. As the stage of an event of truth, the critical approach opens the way forward into the new terrains of creative mythology. A legacy that will not expose itself to criticism will not amount to much more than conventional piety. In the hands of the liberal and conservative lines, rather than living myth, we can recognize a belief system or ideology which is in full support of “business as usual” and “the powers that be”. In his own way, Campbell follows Nietzsche’s critical approach, for he believed in using mythology, above all, as an instrument of personal liberation. He promoted the break from infantile dependence on all belief systems or mythic ideologies—including his own—as well as social prestige, wealth and power, or any other form of ego fixation. As we can read in Hero’s Journey : One of the functions of the rituals again is to kill that infantile ego. Then you have a death-rebirth motif. So the individual falls into the ground of his own being and comes out an adult, a responsible adult, who’s undergone certain transformations. (156-157) Nowadays, intellectual and emotional independence is a rare and precious achievement. Swimming against the floods of state propaganda, culture wars and relentless social media, this independent state of mind may seem like a miracle. In everyday life, however, we can find that it is rooted in a spiritual struggle of liberation from the status quo—a struggle which can only be waged in the service of truth—the cutting edge of critical thinking. As a consummate expression of freedom, an independent mind points to the most radical form of individuation, a process that can only take place within the commonwealth of an intellectual or spiritual community across the centuries . In the critical crucible of myth and history, the substance of true mythology ( vera narratio ) is mortified and dismembered, cooked and boiled down to its own most essence, where it becomes one with Campbell’s ultimate dream of a “New Science of Myth.” This critical phoenix of Mythological Studies can today be reborn as the study of epic mytho-history out of the antiquarian ashes of Campbell’s monumental achievements. MythBlast authored by: Norland Téllez is an award-winning writer and animation director who currently teaches Animation and Character Design courses at Otis College of Art and Design, Cal State Fullerton. He is also conducting a Life Drawing Lab at USC School of Cinematic Arts. He earned his Ph.D. from Pacifica Graduate Institute in 2009 with a dissertation on the Popol-Wuh of the K’iche’ Maya, which he is currently translating and illustrating in its archetypal dimensions as the Wisdom of the Peoples. You can learn more at norlandtellez.com . This MythBlast was inspired by  The Power of Myth  Episode 6, and The Hero's Journey Latest Podcast In this episode, we are joined by Mollie Adler —a podcaster, writer, and existential thinker whose work deeply explores the complexities of human experience. As the creator of the podcast Back from the Borderline, Mollie challenges us to move beyond surface-level conversations and engage with our innermost selves. Influenced by mythology and the transformative work of Joseph Campbell, her approach is rooted in emotional alchemy—embracing the belief that from the ashes of suffering, something new can arise. Mollie often discusses mental health issues, encouraging her listeners to view mental health symptoms as messengers rather than flaws, guiding us toward alignment with the deepest yearnings of our souls. Drawing from her personal journey, she diverges from mainstream psychiatry’s tendency to "pathologize", offering instead a path of personal transformation and healing that acknowledges trauma, shame, and the challenges of modern life. Through her work, Mollie creates a space for vulnerable conversations, exploring the darkest parts of the human condition in pursuit of self-compassion and renewal. In this episode, she and JCF’s John Bucher discuss her life, her journey into mythology and soul-centered work, and how she has been influenced by Joseph Campbell. Mollie also opens up about her personal struggles with mental health and the topic of suicide. Listener discretion is advised, as sensitive themes are addressed. Find out more about Mollie here: http://www.backfromtheborderline.com/ Listen Here This Week's Highlights "One of the functions of the rituals again is to kill that infantile ego. Then you have a death-rebirth motif. So the individual falls into the ground of his own being and comes out an adult, a responsible adult, who’s undergone certain transformations." -- Joseph Campbell The Hero's Journey , 156-157 The Hidden Dimension (see more videos) Subscribe to the MythBlast Newsletter

Teotihuacan - Pyramid of the Sun (Mexico, Aztec, first–second century A.D. Photo: Joel Bedford via Flickr.com. Creative Commons Logo Used under a Creative Commons: Attribution license. Many years from now, at the crossroads of our lives, our souls will want to remember the day our lives were given a fresh start. In such moments of reflection, the past, future, and present all seem to roll together as one. Like the mythical serpent that bites its own tail, giving birth and devouring itself at the same time, every ending turns into a beginning that is constantly renewing itself, delivering an end which never seems to stop. Likewise, at the dawn of the New Year, we invite such reflections from the mythic dimension where the present holiday becomes transparent to the eternity of time. From time immemorial, in the highlands of Mesoamerica, the spectacle of the winter solstice has offered precisely such a point of spiritual concentration and reflection on time. The very term for “sun,” “day,” or even “dawn,” is kinh , or k’ij for the highland Maya, a synonym for time itself whose glyphic form often appears as a kind of mandala “simulating a flower with four petals” (Miguel León-Portilla, Time and Reality in the Thought of the Maya , 18). The k’ij or kinh is doubtless one of the central symbols of Maya mythology, expressing the all-encompassing nature of time in the consciousness of being. Eric Thompson saw in the eternity of Maya time “the supreme mystery of Maya religion, a subject which pervaded Maya thought to an extent without parallel in the history of mankind” ( Maya Hieroglyphic Writing , 155). The sun is thus the embodiment of the solar God Hunahpu in all its splendor, whose sweeping annual path, as Raphael Girard writes, “symbolizes the cycle of human life” ( Esotericism of the Popul Vuh , 134), as well as entire Ages of Creation, “which are ‘suns’ in the cosmogonic text of the Popol Vuh ” (León-Portilla 18). The course of the sun traces the descending path the Twin Heroes must take down to Xibalba, the Maya underworld, where they must endure the many trials of the Death Lords, including the sacrificial ball game at Crushing Ballcourt, before rising again triumphant as the resurgence of Sun and Moon reborn. Thus the winter solstice, which the highland Maya call rakan k’ij or “sun’s reach” (B. Tedlock 180), brings together the image of the dying and resurrecting heroes at their “reach” with the symbol of time itself. The astronomical event is thus an apprehension of the noumenal sense of temporality itself, an experience of becoming and transformation, which is concentrated on a point of illumination that eternally renews itself. The image of the Rising Dawn thus illustrates a fundamental insight that Joseph Campbell referred to as a decisive feature of true mythology: its transparency to the transcendent. As he writes with great emphasis in Inner Reaches of Outer Space : “for any god who is not transparent to transcendence is an idol and its worship is idolatry” (18). Yet it is rather obscure and difficult to say what exactly being “transparent to transcendence” really means, and it seems necessarily obscure and difficult, lest our description itself become “opaque to transcendence.” We must guard ourselves against the temptation of reducing the mysterium to something familiar and easy to grasp, which would turn it into an idol devoid of transcendence. This is a problem of communication that affects philosophy and mysticism alike. But this is also where the language of mythology may step in to bridge the gap between opposites in time. The Maya used a dual calendric system for measuring and marking time. In their integrated temporal scheme, roughly speaking, “feminine” and “masculine” forms of time-consciousness continuously overlap. What the shamanic ajk’ij or “day [sun or time] keepers” (B. Tedlock, Time and the Highland Maya , 47) call a proper “Calendar Round” signifies a strict mechanical combination of the two systems. Like two interlocking gears of sacred temporality, the solar and lunar calendars must work in unison while expressing two fundamental senses or intuitions of time, each following its own order of being with the other. On the one hand, a large 365-day solar cycle, known as the haab or macewal k’ij (“common days”), encircles the annual path of the sun and the collective rhythms of agriculture and seasonal change. On the other hand, a smaller 260-day cycle coils around a more internal and personal sense of time, where the psychic influences of that particular day and person are reckoned with and their meaning “sorted out.” This is the role of the sacred divinatory calendar, which came to be known as the tzolk’in , and is “sacred” in the original sense of being set apart , that is, of being able to carve a personal space for the mythic dimensions of the collective psyche.

Crossing the threshold (Gustave Doré, illustration of Dante Alleghiegi's Inferno, print, France, 1861) Looking at my life, I cannot escape a basic fact: my individual existence is enmeshed in the life of the collective—not only my immediate family and friends, but in the larger institutions and systems that give meaning to my existence as a citizen of the United States. Attempting to trace one's own “pathway to bliss,” therefore, cannot be a self-centered undertaking. Every decision and risk I take affects the collective of which I am a part. Therefore, an authentic pathway to bliss can never be solely a question of “personal responsibility,” as it has to do with the larger responsibility that the personal bears to the collective. The power of myth works like a “secret opening through which the inexhaustible energies of the cosmos pour into human cultural manifestation” ,and the collective nature of this act is often taken for granted (Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, 3). That being said, we turn to the issue of  archetypes, which are contents of the collective unconscious. Carl Jung writes that an archetype “stirs us because it summons a voice that is stronger than our own,” and “[w]hoever speaks in primordial images speaks with a thousand voices” as the power of myth “transmutes [our] personal destiny into the destiny of mankind” (Jung,  The Spirit in Man, Art, & Literature , 75 | CW15: 82¶129). Both Campbell and Jung ultimately end up stressing the collectivity and universality of the psyche that lives within each individual, although for the most part, unconsciously. It is interesting to note that when Campbell came across psychologist Abraham Maslow’s list of “secular” values (“survival, security, personal relationships, prestige, and self-development”), he was struck at once by the fact that these are “the values for which people live when they have nothing to live for” ( Pathways to Bliss: Mythology and Personal Transformation, 86). Unbridled individualism, far from being a road to “higher consciousness,” is a regressive path into the selfishness of nature. In things like survivalism, personalism, and selfish self-development, Campbell discerns precisely the type of values “that a mythically inspired person doesn't live for, because these are exactly the values that mythology transcends” ( Pathways to Bliss, 87). Mythology transcends these values simply because of the fact that it is a product of the collective mind working through individuals. As individuals participate in the collective substance of myth, there is not only individual development but a development of the universal self; the power of myth is the power to transmute personal or private experiences into historic events with collective significance. In the last analysis, this unfolding of mythic consciousness expresses the life of the collective spirit which constitutes a people, a nation, or even a species. As an individual gets caught in the archetypal powers of the collective, consciousness must submit to the rites and symbols of initiation to make sense of this new reality. The fundamental significance of the rites and symbols of initiation has little to do with egocentric self-development, and instead “introduces the candidate into the human community and into the world of spiritual and cultural values” (Eliade, Rites and Symbols of Initiation , x). As individuals are “decentered” from their conscious, ego-driven idea of themselves, they are initiated into a larger context of cultural creation that affects the entire organization of human life. Initiation is a passionate engagement with our collective destiny, accepting the gifts and responsibilities that come from being a grown-up member of society. Initiation means leaving the state of apolitical innocence that characterizes the child, and orienting its consciousness to the universal dimensions of cultural life in the arena of the polis (city-state). Accordingly, it is characteristic of this stage of the journey that it should appear as a descensus ad inferos (“descent into Hell”) wherein we must confront archetypes of the “death-drive” ( thanatos ) at the root of the psyche. Both in puberty rites of initiation and shamanic forms of dismemberment, the hero experiences the sacrificial logic of the self in the underworld. As consciousness is submerged into the chaotic substance of the collective psyche, the “wholeness” of the ego is torn to pieces as its false myths are deconstructed on the sacrificial altar of the universal self. As Campbell describes the second act of the Hero’s Journey, initiation is where “[t]he most difficult stages of the adventure now begin, when the depths of the underworld with their remarkable manifestations open before him. . .” ( The Hero with a Thousand Faces, 91). The opening of the underworld pulls our consciousness down into the dark roots of our collective history and its mythic depths, where a deep sense of belonging emerges as a consequence of the descent. An initiation into the psychic realms of memory and forgetfulness, historic notions and long-lost ancestral shades, it is where we must give the blood of sacrifice that makes the dead speak again. The initiatory journey is certainly not one for the faint of heart; for rather than receiving encouragement or “positive vibes,” we are met with the signs of absolute negativity—the spectral afterlife of psychic inexistence—characterizing the collective psyche in its underworldly aspect. Taking us beyond our instincts for self-preservation, initiation into the depths moves our consciousness toward the knowledge ( gnosis ) of being itself, in the integration of existence with nonexistence, the conscious mind with the unconscious process. Therefore, it requires a full intellectual engagement with the “crazy” logic of the psyche—its negative and self-contradictory psycho-logic—as the spiritual life of the world soul in time.

Radha & Kṛṣṇa as Lovers, from the Gita Govinda (gouache on paper, India, c. 1780. Courtesy of the Walters Art Museum; used through a Creative Commons license) What the holy grail symbolizes is the highest spiritual fulfillment of a human life [...] It has to do with overcoming the same temptations that the Buddha overcame: attachment to this, and that, or the other life detail that has pulled you off course (Joseph Campbell, A Joseph Campbell Companion: Reflections on the Art of Living , 72) Masters of the art of living often remind us that even the highest spiritual fulfillment in life can’t stand apart from the journeying itself. One may be struck on the road to Damascus, but spiritual enlightenment is equally about what happens afterwards, and for the rest of your life. The secret of the art seems to lie within one's ability to reflect, a form of recollection that requires one to look back as well as continually move forward in time. But what is the fundamental insight that leads to the fulfillment of life? To begin with, the answer to this question cannot be something so complicated and obscure that only a few ‘mystic specialists’ could have access to it. On the other, it cannot be so simple and basic that it will lack the power to challenge our whole being, failing to push us on to our greatest adventure. Like the quest for the Holy Grail, the question of the meaning of life is designed to be both at once: completely mundane and familiar as well as absolutely transcendent, et fascinans . Like falling in love for the first time, along the journey to fulfillment, the whole world is transfigured, down to its meanest details, in the radiance of the One. The fact that marriage itself symbolizes such a paradoxical idea—mundane human cohabitation and the highest spiritual achievement—is not a total surprise. It is, after all, a cross-cultural concept that mingles the divinity of love with the profanity of everyday life. In its archetypal dimension, therefore, even the most ordinary marriage points to the miracle of the sacred—an insight into the marriage of the finite with the infinite, which holds the key to the lowest and highest mysteries of human life. A symbol of transcendence and immanence at the same time, marriage encapsulates our ultimate spiritual and biological fulfillment without contradiction.  Being both real and ideal, the profundity of a marriage does not require religious ideology to prove its vital essence and purpose. Joining the profane and the sacred, sexuality and love, marriage brings selfishness to extinction in the fusion with the greater whole. For this reason, marriage is also intimately linked with death, that mother of all ciphers, which is the hidden primordial background of all metaphysical experience.  Joseph Campbell was also keenly aware of the mysterious conjunction of marriage and death, from a mythological standpoint. He saw how its metaphysical content is carried through to its basic functions, the drive to propagate the species and the rearing of children: Marriage and Killing are related. The Marriage is the killing of your separateness. You’re becoming one part of a larger unity. You’re no longer the separate one. In Egypt Osiris begets his hero son Horus when he is dead. When you have begotten a son, you are now secondary. The son is primary and you’re there as a fostering presence; you are no longer number one. And this is death to your primary existence, do you see? So these two things are linked up very strongly, death and marriage ceremonies have a lot in common. The self-sacrificial logic of myth and ritual in this regard is particularly clear, but Campbell raises the stakes even higher: marriage is not a question of idle speculation but a premeditated act of killing one’s ego that begets a new life. Consequently, the sacrificial killing of the alienated ego results in the ability to foster the future of ourkind . In this puzzle of mighty opposites, ultimate fulfillment and the meaning of life may be grasped. As he developed the notion of the death drive ( todestrieb ), Freud saw in the processes of death more than an image; he saw in death a dynamic process of self-transcendence that is internal to life itself, not some intrusion from the outside which cuts life short, but an expression of life's inner drive to descendence which returns to its material origin: If we are to take it as a truth that knows no exception that everything living dies from internal reasons—becomes inorganic once again—then we shall be compelled to say ‘the aim of all life is death,’ and, looking backwards, ‘inanimate things existed before living ones.’ (Freud, Beyond the Pleasure Principle , 45-46) Jung for his part reckoned with the cultural resistance to this problem—so little understood in general and least by those who would benefit the most: We are so convinced that death is simply the end of a process that it does not ordinarily occur to us to conceive of death as a goal and a fulfillment, as we do without hesitation the aims and purposes of youthful life in its ascendance. (Carl Jung, Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche , 797) Death as the goal and fulfillment of life, as ultimate meaning? A good death, like a good life, depends on our ability to let go. Although it may be more difficult to sell the meaning of life when its purpose is simply to let it go, it is a fundamental insight into our mortal condition with the potential to transform our immortal soul. The readiness is all.