In this essay, Mathew Spano
illuminates the vital poetry of fifth century Indian poet Bhartrihari
using a Jungian critical lens.
Tracking the Hermit’s Soul: A Jungian Reading of Bhartrihari’s Satakatraya
By Mathew V. Spano, Ph.D.
From
behind the professor’s closed office door we might hear the mounting
anxiety: “What a great new anthology of world literature! Poetry, prose,
and drama from the Mayan culture, medieval Japan, and ancient India!
But...how am I to read these works?” These doors and these words,
incidentally, might easily be our own (don’t worry, nobody heard)! The
stakes today are high when teaching World Literature, for if we take a soft approach
to the texts, rely on popular conceptions and stereotypical
interpretations, we risk misrepresenting authors and even entire
cultures. Fortunately, some of our own schools of literary criticism
may prove themselves both versatile and valuable when it comes to
understanding texts from culture periods vastly different from our own.
Some approaches, of course, may work better than others, and we should
choose that which comes nearest the spirit of the work even over that
which accounts for the most facts, literary or otherwise. Hence, when
we come to the work of Bhartrihari, a fifth century Indian poet/
philosopher who appears in nearly every anthology of World Literature,
we face some difficult decisions. The perfunctory introductions to his
work tell us nothing more than that he was a court poet, grammarian,
and Buddhist philosopher in the Gupta era and that he is coming to be
appreciated in the West as a central figure in the formation and
criticism of Indian language and literature. How, then, should we read
him?
While some readings, such as historical
or Marxian analyses, shed light on the complex class system and
exploitation present in the fifth century Indian society surrounding
Bhartrihari’s work, 1
we might do better to call upon Jungian psychoanalysis to understand
and appreciate the spirit of his work. Regarding Bhartrihari the
grammarian, critic Harold Coward notes that “Jung provides the closest
modern Western approximation to the yoga conception of consciousness
[implicit in Bhartrihari’s sphota language theory]” (Coward 93), but he has little to say from a Jungian perspective about Bhartrihari the poet. 2 As we read through Satakatraya (“three groups of one hundred verses”) Bhartrihari’s collection of Sanskrit poems, 3 we note that each of its three principal books, Among Fools and Kings, Passionate Encounters, and Refuge in the Forest,
seems to have its own presiding voice. In the first, we hear the
cynic and the complainer; in the second, the passionate lover caught in
the throes of sensual desires; in the third, the ascetic and spiritual
seeker. Hence, in Bhartrihari’s Satakatraya we not only
recognize a fragmented self, a torn self, but perhaps also an effort to
compartmentalize the self (Walker, Lecture). But for what reason? Why
divide a poetic work into these three books and these three distinct
personalities? Is there a pattern or progression? Is Bhartrihari’s
poetic personality changing, perhaps developing throughout the Satakatraya?
Among the numerous literary critical schools to which we might appeal
to answer these questions, Jungian analytical psychology may prove the
most effective in shedding light on Bhartrihari’s poetry and
psychology. Individuation, a term Jung coined to describe the process
by which one comes to identify with the Self (the archetype of
wholeness) as opposed to the ego alone (inflation), provides us with a
key to understanding Bhartrihari’s evolving poetic self.
According
to Jung, the psyche may be divided into three principle components: the
ego and persona (the conscious, rational mind), the personal
unconscious (suppressed thoughts and experiences), and the collective
unconscious (the archetypes). Individuation begins with the weakening
of the persona as archetypes (collective, instinctual drives which
manifest in dream images) begin to constellate (become active) invading
dreams and even waking consciousness. Typically, one’s relationships to
daily life begin to suffer and traditional beliefs and ideals fall from
the absolutes by which one lives one’s life to concepts of relative
value. As the persona begins to fracture, the shadow emerges. The
shadow, as Jung often describes it, consists of material that has been
repressed by the ego as one matures through childhood and adolescent
stages of development. It continues to accept anything we have
difficulty fitting into our persona or rational outlook on life. The
shadow holds the undesirable (and often vital) traits of our
personality, the taboo, the Hyde to the persona’s Jekyll. Rather than
acknowledge the shadow as part of oneself, one will typically project it
outward onto an evil and monstrous someone or something else; hence, we
see that the shadow, like the other archetypes, is an illusion-making
factor within the psyche which prevents one from accurately perceiving
and appropriately responding to reality. One’s first challenge in the
process of individuation, then, is to try to accept the shadow figure,
to negotiate with it in some way so as to integrate it and glean some of
its energy--the treasure that has been buried along with the refuse.
As its title suggests, Bhartrihari’s first book of poems Among Kings and Fools
is filled with bitterness and cynicism directed at the evil and
suffering of life in general and the evil and suffering of the court
system in particular. We seem to hear the voice of a middle-aged or
older man who has seen all aspects of political courtly life; in Jungian
theory it is usually the “mid-life crisis” which signifies the start of
the individuation process and the appearance of the shadow.
In
poem # 24, the poet lists several of the most admirable of human
virtues but couples them with their evil counterparts: i.e. the hero is
also called cruel, the majestic are also called arrogant, etc. (Miller
39). The point of the poem, namely that the wicked slander all virtues,
is certainly born out by the many examples which precede it, yet we
wonder if Bhartrihari hasn’t made his point too well. Experience tells
us that heroes are in fact often cruel, that the majestic are often
also arrogant, etc. Certainly Bhartrihari is an experienced enough
observer of court politics to notice the ring of truth in these
“slanders,” yet he continually moralizes in this book, extolling the
virtuous and condemning the wicked. Nor does he admit the possibility
that he too is guilty of slandering the court, that he might possess a
certain degree of wickedness himself. Curiously, no more than three
poems later, he writes: “One should avoid an evil man/ even if knowledge
adorns him./ Is not a diamond-hooded serpent/ an agent of danger?”
(40). Is the poet not here contradicting himself in slandering the
virtue of knowledge and intelligence? Does Bhartrihari number himself
as one of the wicked? By the end of this first book, however, we notice
a new perspective emerging, a broader consciousness. In # 71, for
example, the poet seems to intentionally intermingle virtue and vice:
the rogue’s guile precedes the saint’s affection, the teacher’s patience
is followed by a woman’s cunning, etc. And it is “the skill these people have in their arts”
(my emphasis, 56), the complex inter-relatedness and dynamic of the
wicked and the virtuous, which forms the basis of society and keeps it
running. Perhaps, as Jung suggests, those like Bhartrihari who have
only just begun the journey of individuation may at times glimpse the
goal, the archetypal Self which encompasses and harmonizes all the other
archetypes.
After the shadow has been
more or less integrated into consciousness, according to Jung’s theory,
other archetypes begin to emerge in dreams and visions. Typically, the
anima, the personified image of a man’s contrasexual psychic impulses,
appears next in dreams in various roles: prostitute, seductress, even
spiritual guide to name a few. She represents a man’s feeling function
and her particular role corresponds to the kind of relationship a man
has to his feelings. For a man detached from or averse to his own
feelings, she appears in her dangerous aspect as mother-devourer, witch,
siren, etc. Inability to sufficiently cultivate the feeling function
and integrate the anima can lead to moodiness, oversensitivity, even
severe depression or feelings of worthlessness (von Franz 186).
The second book of Bhartrihari’s Satakatraya
focuses on just such a female figure as respected Sanskrit translator
and Indologist Barbara Stoler Miller notes in her excellent introduction
to Bhartrihari’s poetry:
Woman,
his passion’s object, is an enigma that defies Bhartrihari’s solution.
She seems to him an invitation to some kind of supraterrestrial
paradise, but she is at the same time life’s device for enticing men
into inescapable bondage. The delights of passionate encounter are at
once beautiful and ominous; the vehemence of Bhartrihari’s denunciation
of woman is only a measure of the terrible fascination she holds for
him. The seductress who causes Bhartrihari’s unrest is neither his wife
nor a particular mistress, nor is she some idealized Beatrice; she is
every woman who is young, affectionate, artful, charming, and
voluptuous. His adoration of her is neither a worshipful nor a ritual
love; it is concrete passion which delights in the physical subtleties
of amorous play and in the seasons which set love’s moods. (Miller
15-16)
It is the indefinite
but powerfully alluring nature of this feminine figure for the poet as
well as the emotional intensity she inspires in him which indicate the
presence of the anima archetype.
Jungians
might explain the “terrible fascination” which mesmerizes the poet with
the notion of an archetypal field: “Just as a magnet sits unnoticed and
uninfluential until something comes into its surrounding field, so too
does the archetype. As material gets drawn into the archetypal field, a
complex is formed...” (Stamper 4). Bhartrihari adds to his anima
complex by obsessively compounding erotic images and pulling in images
from nature, religion, and even astronomy whenever he can to describe
her allure: “she glowed with the magic of gems” (#131, 77), “she glowed
with the planets’ magic” in (#132). In some poems, like # 78, he offers
long lists of concrete, sensual details as evidence of the seduction
and deception of the female form. Yet the brief, two line closing
epigrams cursing women as obstacles to enlightenment are somehow
anticlimactic and ineffectual coming as they do after seven or so lines
of exotic sidelong glances and graceful hips. In poems 77 to 79, for
example, he acknowledges that with her “exotic flashing eyes,”
“voluptuous breasts,” “smiles, affection, modesty, and art...woman
enchains us,” yet he is clearly fascinated with his captor (59).
So
what is the anima for Bhartrihari? Is she a help or a hindrance in
the quest for enlightenment? It would seem that the poet, struggling to
understand her, sees her as both. At times, he praises her as a
possible goal in place of enlightenment: “Deluded men who
forsake her/ are fools pursuing illusory fruits...” (# 113, 71). In
his obsession with the anima, he has reversed the traditional Buddhist
view of women as one of the “illusory fruits” of phenomenal existence
and liberation or nirvana as reality. He even suggests she is more
powerful than the patriarchal gods of the traditional Hindu trinity or trimurti:
“We bow to the god whose sign is a sea serpent,/ to Love, who makes the
gods Shiva, Bhrahma, and Vishnu/ slaves in dark chambers of doe-eyed
women;/ to Kama, whose marvelous artifice eludes all words” (# 112,
71). Here, Bhartrihari draws on the long-standing paradoxical Indian
tradition of sexual love as a gateway to enlightenment as seen in
Tantric practices and the Kama Sutra. Similarly, in the Individuation
theory, the anima in her positive aspect acts as a kind of spiritual
guide, bridging the gap between physical desire and spiritual desire:
Dante’s Beatrice or the Virgin Mary or the female serpent guide in
Indian Kundalini yoga. Even so, it is difficult to consistently view
Bhartrihari’s anima as a spiritual guide since he also depicts her in
her negative aspect, as an enchantress. He often identifies her with
phenomenal nature (poems 89-91) which lures man and ignites passions and
desires, thereby keeping him chained to samsara: “By [nature’s] magic
woman is transformed from a creature of flesh and bones into a siren who
destroys man’s reason” (Miller 16). Jungians also recognize this
connection in a man’s psyche between the anima and nature, noting that
in the siren, the nymph, the mermaid, etc., the anima emerges from the
wilderness of the unconscious to lure him, to trick him, to enslave him
on her island and keep him from continuing on his journey.
At
best, Bhartrihari seems ambiguous in his view of the anima. In some
poems she is a positive force worthy of a man’s utmost concentration and
attention. In others, she is the siren drawing him off his spiritual
course and into shipwreck on the rocks of samsara. Here, another
Jungian concept, the theory of compensation might be of help in explaining the poet’s dual perspective of the anima:
It
is the mythmaking artist, says Jung, who discovers the compensatory
archetypal image that the age and the culture require for greater
balance: “the artist seizes on this image, and in raising it from
deepest unconsciousness he brings it into relation with conscious
values, thereby transforming it until it can be accepted by the minds of
his contemporaries according to their powers.” (Walker, Jung 20)
Hence,
in both praising and cursing the collective female image, Bhartrihari
may be depicting the society’s predominant view of woman and, perhaps,
presenting an alternative view. His portrayal of her as a possible
alternative to nirvanic release may serve as a compensatory image for a
society which traditionally views woman as the seductress or enchantress
who keeps the aspiring yogi enchained to the world of the senses and of
desire. 4
In all likelihood, however, Bhartrihari was unaware of this,
continually vacillating on his view of the anima and struggling to
understand her. Perhaps the time was right for the anima to begin
insisting on being portrayed in her positive aspect and chose
Bhartrihari as her vehicle.
Indeed, he seems utterly possessed by her right up through the end of Passionate Encounters and into his third book, Refuge in the Forest. From depression to frustration and anger, he exhibits the full range of anima moods (von
Franz 186), at one moment giving up all hope of breaking from her
orbit and achieving enlightenment: “Who can really forsake the hips/ of
beautiful women bound/ with girdles of ruby jewels?” (#147, 82). At
another moment, enraged at her power over him, he reduces her to images
of the scatological: “...her face, a vile receptacle of phlegm...her
thighs, dank with urine...Mark how this despicable form/ is flourished
by the poets” (# 159, 87). Even well into book three, he can “choose no
single course” (# 172, 91), vacillating between courting beautiful
women and pursuing the life of the religious ascetic. While we would
certainly misread Bhartrihari to suggest that he ever fully integrates
the anima, we can argue that he seems to make his peace with her, for
she relinquishes her position at center stage in his consciousness and
is replaced by another archetypal image by the end of book three, that
of the divine couple and the ascetic’s quiet and peaceful forest--the
archetypal Self.
According to the
theory of Individuation, once one has more or less made one’s peace with
the shadow and anima, the Self--the harmonizing archetypal
force--begins to emerge in various dream symbols including the divine
child, the savior figure, the cosmic man, or a circular symbol called a mandala
or magic circle. Jung borrowed this term from the Sanskrit, evidence
that he drew upon Indian religion and philosophy to confirm what he was
observing in some of his patients’ dreams: “The Self operates as the
unconscious inner core of an individual’s being, as the ultimate
principle of harmony and unity. Perhaps inspired by the Hindu term
“Atman” (literally “Self” in Sanskrit), which designates the
transpersonal oneness of identity for all beings...Jung calls this new
center the Self...” (Walker, Jung 84). As the “superordinate
factor in a system in which the ego is subordinate,” (Singer 210) the
Self is the center of consciousness itself as well as all the other
archetypes.
Significantly, in book three of
Bhartrihari’s work, we hear the voices of books one and two--of the
shadow-projecting cynic and the anima-possessed lover--intermixed
throughout. In #166 he chides the king for being proud and arrogant
while extolling his own selflessness, yet two poems later he reports
that he has been “boasting about [his] own virtues” (90) to impress the
aristocracy. This time, however, Bhartrihari is more aware of the
shadow and of his own tendencies toward pride, for in this same poem he
is ashamed of his boasting and chastises himself for his failing: a
Buddhist monk bragging about his selflessness to the selfish and
powerful is, in fact, seeking power himself. That Bhartrihari
recognizes this speaks well for him. Indeed, in the first half of the
poem, he clearly indicates his understanding of the shadow tendency
toward pride and arrogance that is part of human nature: “To cultivate
lives as ephemeral/ as droplets on a lotus leaf,/ what do we not stoop
to do/ when discrimination fails us?” Discrimination, incidentally, is
the ability to distinguish the illusory world of the senses and the ego
from the eternal world of the Self. We hear in book three, then, a
somewhat less cynical voice or a voice whose cynicism derives from the
perspective of one who is transcending the phenomenal world not trying
to change it.
And though the mysterious female
form is also still present in book three, it seems to give way to a
stronger obsession with time and the transience of existence in the last
poems. We might explain this as Bhartrihari simply growing older,
wiser, more philosophical, or we might attribute the poems in book two
to his meditations on the nature of the anima’s appeal throughout books
one and two. In commenting on archetypal fields (which would include
anima possession), Jungian analyst Mary Stamper notes that “if one does
get in it, this sensitivity could allow one to leave the field [or grow
out of it] before getting in so far that its power is overwhelming...We
might say that reflection decreases one’s susceptibility to the field”
(Stamper 6). By book three, he has shifted emphasis away from the
anima and toward the Self. We hear a less obsessed, more
philosophically detached voice. In # 171, for example, the feminine
appears not as seductress, as we might expect, but as Kali, the goddess
of both fertility and death: “Time plays a frenzied game with Kali,/ his
partner in destruction” (91). Time in this poem would be the god of
time Kala, Kali’s consort; hence, Bhartrihari now perceives the feminine
from a much wider perspective as a part of the cosmic game of birth and
death:
“Kali is one of the many
names of Sakti: the names descriptive of the creative power are the
feminine forms of the words pertaining to the many aspects and functions
of the unitive godhead:...Kali...derived from Kala...define[s] the
creative aspect of the One. In iconography this concept is imaged as
Ardhanarisvara--the Lord whose one half is woman. Siva and Sakti [Kala
and Kali] are therefore one indivisible whole” (Rajan 23).
Bhartrihari’s
vision of the divine play of the creative reality of the goddess which
manifests the eternal, changeless reality represented in the god
suggests he is no longer held captive by the anima but has envisioned
the Self:
“Because this symbol
represents that which is whole and complete, it is often conceived of as
a bisexual being. In this form the symbol reconciles one of the most
important pairs of psychological opposites--male and female. This union
also appears in dreams as a divine, royal, or otherwise distinguished
couple” (von Franz 216).
In the
last poems, Bhartrihari shifts even further away from political
concerns and desire for the collective feminine form, focusing more and
more on Siva and Brahman, the eternal aspect of existence: “If you men
perceive your deeper selves,/ then reach toward Brahman boundless,/
enduring, remote, and pervading;/ and it shall follow that/ power and
pleasure in the world/ will seem the obsessions of wretched fools” (#
188, 98). The “deeper self” which the poet refers to here is
Brahman--the primordial energy source from which forms come into being
and back into which they must return. Like other classical Sanskrit
poets, Bhartrihari enacts a “transference of authority to a voice beyond
Time, to ‘the voice of Silence’ that shaped the universe...” (Rajan
24). For Bhartrihari this silence is imagined as “a sylvan silence...a
forest where no echoes sound” (# 181, 95). In her new book Sounding the Soul: The Art of Listening,
Jungian analyst and author Mary Lynn Kittelson links the auditory
experience of the archetypal Self to the three thousand year old claim
in the Hindu Vedas that the phenomenal world emanated (and emanates
from) the primordial sound, a sound which the Buddhists interpreted as
OM, the source of all sounds which is in and of itself absent of
distinct sound (qtd. in McFadden 15). This is the primordial silence
which Bhartrihari imagines as the perfectly still and quiet forest--
“where no echoes sound.” In these last poems, we hear the poet’s final
voice--that of a teacher giving counsel to “you men” (#188, 98) or
students to meditate on this forest silence, on Brahman, as a way of
transcending not only worldly politics but one’s own fears and desires
as well. Hence, it would appear he has completed his quest for release
from the compulsions of the archetypes.
Nevertheless, our comparison of Bhartrihari’s spiritual progression throughout Satakatraya
to Jung’s process of individuation presents certain difficulties which
should be noted, for individuation differs significantly from the
Buddhist quest for nirvana in several ways. First, the goals in each
quest appear to be quite different. Through individuation one is to
recognize and understand “one’s unique psychological reality, including
strengths and limitations...It leads to the experience of the Self as
the regulating center of the psyche” (Sugg 422). In other words, it is
the process of breaking free of the archetypes’ influence and
projections and achieving a psychological balance so as to re-enter
society and function in a healthy and productive manner. The Buddhist,
on the other hand, seeks liberation from society, politics, desires, and
fears; to him these all contribute to attachment to the grand illusion
of samsara, the wheel of suffering in which humans are perpetually
reborn. Reality rests in the mystical state of nirvana whereas the goal
of individuation lies in self understanding and acceptance.
Consequently, we may question the comparison of the archetypal Self to
the Indian notion of Atman. While the Self represents the totality of
an individual psyche, Atman represents both the individual soul and the
mystical, divine, universal self and the paradox that the two are indeed
one. Finally, we should note that Bhartrihari’s progression, whether
psychological or spiritual, is far from perfect or complete. He
frequently complains about social and political injustice as well as his
bewitchment by the female form throughout his third and final book.
Jungian
theory, however, is flexible enough to allow us to more or less address
each of these criticisms. Frequently, Jungians point out that
individuation is not a simple linear progression toward self
understanding. It is difficult and often frightening to attempt to
reclaim all those split off aspects of the psyche, and “it is rare for
anyone to realize it [individuation] completely” (Walker, Jung
33). Sometimes, however, in the midst of reflecting on one’s own
compulsions and projections, one may catch a glimpse of the archetypal
Self as in a dream a divine child or savior figure might appear in the
midst of a battlefield or dungeon. The Self, furthermore, is not
simply representative of one’s unique psychic reality as Jungians
frequently claim; it is an archetype and by definition part of the
collective unconscious. Hence, much like the Atman, it represents the
harmonizing factor in one’s individual psyche as well as within the
collective psyche of the society or even the human race. Savior images
such as Christ, Buddha, Krishna, etc. appear in dream as do images of
Abe Lincoln, Martin Luther King, or even one’s nephew or wise old
grandfather: all serve the same function--to harmonize and unify
split-off parts of the psyche (individual or collective). Finally, who
is to say that like the nirvanic experience the experience of the Self
in dream is not mystical in nature, at least within the dream’s
reality? And in that experience, is not one liberated at least for a
moment from worldly concerns and desires? While it is true that
important differences still exist between individuation and Indian yoga,
the similarities are compelling enough to argue for Jungian criticism
as the most productive approach to studying classical Eastern
literature.
Notes
1. The
fact that Bhartrihari was a poet in the fifth century Gupta court might
lead us to believe a historical or Marxian reading applies best. D.D.
Kosambi, the famed Marxian Sanskrit scholar and critic, blasted
practically all of Sanskrit literature as the product of a caste system
whose primary means of production was the exploitation and oppression of
India’s starving masses:
The subtle mystic philosophies...[and] ornate literature...of India all derive from the same historical process that produced the famished apathy of the villager, senseless opportunism and termite greed of the ‘cultured’ strata, sullen un-coordinated discontent among the workers, the general demoralisation, misery, squalor and degrading superstition. The one is the result of the other, the one is the expression of the other. (qtd. in Goldman)
Nevertheless,
as Goldman astutely notes, Kosambi ironically praised Bhartrihari in
critical editions of his poetry, poetry which exemplified for Kosambi
“the elitist cultural expression which he so soundly indict[ed]”
(Goldman 137). Perhaps it was Bhartrihari’s first work, Among Fools and Kings,
which drew Kosambi, for here the poet soundly criticizes the court
system of which he was a part. In lyric 25, Bhartrihari sees moksa
(liberation) as the great social equalizer: “Cast noble birth to
hell!/ All the virtues even lower!...Leave us free to win that wealth/
without which all these merits/ count as worthless bits of straw!”
(Miller, 40). His ironic voice is clear in lyric 51 where he sees all
apparent virtues and talents arising from a privileged social position:
“A man of wealth is held to be high-born,/ wise, scholarly,
discerning;/ eloquent, and even handsome--/ all virtues are accessories
to gold!” (Miller 49). Later in this work, he even seems to praise the
contributions of the lower, middle, and priestly classes over the
Bourgeoisie in lyric 71: “...the skill these people/ have in their arts
is the basis of society” (Miller 56). A compassionate and bitter tone
may be heard here as well. These classes are the means of production
for the society, yet the implication is that they enjoy few or none of
its fruits. Passages such as these perhaps reveal Bhartrihari’s appeal
for Kosambi, but they also make it difficult to see the poet as a
propagandist for the ruling caste, which is how Kosambi also
characterized him. Kosambi himself realized this contradiction, seeing
Bhartrihari “as [a poet] of frustration who offer[s] at most an
“escape,” but no “solution” to the grinding contradictions of [his] own
[society]” (Goldman 140). From a Marxian perspective, then,
Bhartrihari is something of an enigma--a court poet who, as part of a
caste system which exploited millions, writes for royalty and the ruling
classes yet undercuts them, it would seem, when he has the chance. To
more fully appreciate his literary and theoretical contributions, we
must look elsewhere.
Works CitedCon Davis, Robert, and Ronald Schleifer. Contemporary Literary Criticism: Literary and Cultural Studies. 3rd ed. New York: Longman, 1994.
Coward, Harold. Bhartrihari. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1976.
Goldman, Robert. “D.D. Kosambi’s Sanskrit Scholarship: A Marxist Approach to Sanskrit Literature.” Marxist Influences and South Asian Literature, Vol. II. East Lansig: Asian Studies Center, Michigan State UP, Winter 1974.
McFadden, Kirsten. “Sounding the Soul.” Rev. of Sounding the Soul: The Art of Listening, by Mary Lynn Kittelson. The Round Table Review of Contemporary Coy Contributions to Jungian Psychology. IV. 4 May/June, 1997: 15-16.
Miller, Barbara Stoler. Bhartrihari and Bilhana: The Hermit and the Love Thief. 1978. New York: Penguin, 1990.
Rajan, Chandra. Introduction. Kalidasa, The Loom of Time: A Collection of His Plays and Poems. New York: Penguin Books, 1990.
Singer, June. Boundaries of the Soul. 1972. New York: Anchor Books, 1994.
Stamper, Mary. “Understanding “Fields” Magnetic and Archetypal.” The Round Table Review of Contemporary Contributions to Jungian Psychology. IV. 2 Nov./Dec. 1996: 4, 6.
Sugg, Richard P., ed. Jungian Literary Criticism. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 1992.
von Franz, M.L. “The Process of Individuation.” Man and His Symbols. Ed. C.G. Jung. New York: Dell, 1964.
Walker, Steven F. Jung and the Jungians on Myth. New York: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1995.
Walker, Steven F. Lecture: Asian Classics. New Brunswick: Rutgers University, Fall 1994.
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This work is linked to Luke 10:33
