The Influence of Carl Jung’s Archetype of the Shadow On Early 20th Century Literature

Rollins College

Rollins Scholarship Online

Master of Liberal Studies 7eses

2012

#e In$uence of Carl Jung’s Archetype of the

Shadow On Early 20th Century Literature

Dana Brook #urmond

Rollins College, DTHURMOND@Rollins.edu

Follow this and additional works at: h9p://scholarship.rollins.edu/mls

Part of the English Language and Literature Commons, and the Psychology Commons

7is Open Access is brought to you for free and open access by Rollins Scholarship Online. It has been accepted for inclusion in Master of Liberal

Studies 7eses by an authorized administrator of Rollins Scholarship Online. For more information, please contact rwalton@rollins.edu.

Recommended Citation

7urmond, Dana Brook, "7e In8uence of Carl Jung’s Archetype of the Shadow On Early 20th Century Literature" (2012). Master of

Liberal Studies eses. 32.

h9p://scholarship.rollins.edu/mls/32

The Influence of Carl Jung’s Archetype of the Shadow

On Early 20

Century Literature

A Project Submitted in Partial Fulfillment

Of the Requirements for the Degree of

Master of Liberal Studies

Dana Brook Thurmond

July 2012

Mentor: Dr. Edward H. Cohen

Reader: Dr. Robert Smither

Rollins College

Hamilton Holt School

Master of Liberal Studies Program Winter Park, Florida

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

~Eliot

Acknowledgments

I would like to dedicate this thesis to my parents, who have been

extremely supportive of my decision to enter this liberal studies program and

earn my master’s degree. I want to thank my mom, who homeschooled me from

the fourth grade, taught me to truly appreciate Victorian literature, and spent so

many hours instilling in me a love of learning and an healthy respect for the

written word. My dad has always encouraged me to pursue higher education

and has never lost faith in my ability to complete this year-long project.

A big thank you to all the professors I have had at Rollins College; you

have all been incredibly inspirational. A special note of thanks must go to my

thesis mentor, Dr. Ed Cohen, whose modern literature class opened my eyes to

new authors and ideas. His wit and insight brought the novels and poetry to life,

especially in my personal study of T. S. Eliot, one of my favorite poets.

I would also like to thank Dr. Robert Smither, an expert on Jung. I am

extremely privileged to have him as my second reader. Dr. Patricia Lancaster

has also been a great encouragement throughout my years in the program.

Thank you to all the rest of my friends and family, especially my fiancé Ben

Bruno, who has constantly supported me in all my endeavors.

Introduction

The turn of the twentieth century was an exciting period for the Western

world. The Industrial Revolution had brought faster and cheaper production

methods, as well as migrations from rural to urban centers. The development of

science was changing the perspectives of the educated elite. As the world

prepared for two world wars, a shadow cast itself across the imaginations of the

literary giants – a shadow of mankind’s true self, dual nature, and distorted future

ahead.

Carl Jung, the Swiss psychiatrist, was publishing controversial ideas about

the “collective unconscious” as part of his public break with Sigmund Freud. He

described the term as similar to the individual unconscious, yet deeper and

universal. Freud’s unconscious was mainly sexually focused, while Jung

believed that there were many varied aspects of the unconscious, and was

frustrated with Freud’s insistence on purely sexual explanations. Jung explains

that he chose the term “collective” because “it has the contents and modes of

behavior that are more or less the same everywhere and in all individuals. It is,

in other words, identical in all men and thus constitutes a common psychic

substrate or a suprapersonal nature which is present in every one of us” (Jung,

“Archetypes” 4). It is difficult to understand the collective unconscious without

physical clues or symbols that allow us access to society’s inner workings. Jung

believed that there is a group of symbols, or archetypes, that are manifestations

of the universal unconscious.

These archetypes are found throughout cultures in fairytales, myths, and

artistic representations. Interestingly, archetypes remain nearly constant

throughout the world. Among the most popular ones is the Shadow. The

Shadow is the often-hidden, repressed part of ourselves that we choose to

ignore, often because it contradicts with our personal values. It can be compared

to the Freudian id, since it represents human’s base needs and darkest desires.

However, while we constantly acknowledge and battle with our id and superego,

we often are not even aware of the Shadow’s existence. The more we repress it,

the stronger and more dangerous it grows. Jung believed that we should face

our Shadows as part of a process called individuation, and although it may be

difficult, it will help us come to grips with our inner person.

Many authors of the time, such as Bram Stoker, Henry James, and Robert

Louis Stevenson, used this concept of the Shadow in their works (whether they

were familiar with Jung’s terminology or not). The idea of a darker part of

humanity that must be faced and dealt with appears in their literature. This thesis

will explore their novels (as well as many other writings), compare their ideas

with those of Jung, and examine how the Shadow of the early 20

century

influenced the literature of the time.

This thesis will also demonstrate how the Shadow is constantly repressed

through the habits of society. Because we are bombarded with the idea that we

must be on our guard and repress our true nature, it is extremely difficult to fully

open ourselves to our own will. Looking at the literature of the early 20

century,

we can see that the messages society sends usually conflict with what might be

beneficial to our own psyche. As a result, we are at constant war with ourselves,

whether to follow our own desires or to conform to those of society. This inner

struggle is also present in the works I will discuss.

But the Shadow’s struggle for autonomy is not as obvious as a physical or

mental battle. The habits that have become ingrained in us, the ones that tell us

to repress our urges and conform to predetermined behavioral patterns, are not

always obvious or apparent to the casual viewer. It takes intense personal

scrutiny to fully understand both what our Shadow desires and what society has

coaxed us into thinking is “normal.” Habits are a strong part of our lives, and they

can be used in both positive and negative ways. William James wrote that

people develop “to the way in which they have been exercised, just as a sheet of

paper or a coat, once creased or folded, tends to fall forever afterward into the

same identical folds” (Duhigg 273). Similarly, in a social context, we act in

certain ways because that is the way we have been taught. We have been

conditioned by society to repress our inner selves and to show only the face that

is deemed acceptable.

Jung believed that this repression is extremely dangerous. The tighter a

lid a person keeps on his or her Shadow, the more it fumes and stews inside,

often creating neuroses and causing an array of psychological problems.

Imagine a kettle on the stove, with the spout corked. Society is the cork, and the

person’s inner turmoil is the steam that is ready to explode. Obviously the steam

must be allowed to escape in a safe manner, as we must explore our Shadow

selves in order to become a whole individual.

The authors discussed in this study did not just write about Jung’s Shadow

archetype; they explored the very reasons behind it and society’s influence over

their characters. Why, for example, does a young governess need to conjure up

ghostly figments to compensate for her own repression? Why does Dracula

come to Britain when there are plenty of women in Eastern Europe upon which to

feed? Dr. Jekyll must feel some need to keep his alter ego, Mr. Hyde, a secret

from society. In searching for their Shadows, these characters are all making a

statement about the early 20

century society in which they lived.

This thesis will also explore the poetry of T. S. Eliot, a very prominent

figure in the rise of literary modernism. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” speaks about

the Shadow directly, while “The Waste Land” has an enormous amount of

unconscious interpretations infused directly in the poetry. Both are excellent

examples of early 20

century poetry that was directly influenced by Jung.

This thesis will enlighten readers on the Jungian aspects of early 20

century literature, especially the Shadow archetype and how it plays a direct role

in the process of individuation, or becoming a whole Self. The authors and poets

I will discuss have greatly contributed to society’s perspective on the Shadow as

a whole, even without a clearly defining the concept. They have all critiqued the

Victorian and early 20

century societies in which they lived as being repressive

and stifling, and they urge a return to the primitive to merge with the Shadow and

become a fulfilled individual. For this reason, they are of vital importance to any

study of Jung and the unconscious.

The Turn of the Screw

The Turn of the Screw, 1898, is one of Henry James’s most famous

novels, as well as the origin of the modern ghost story. It focuses on a naïve

young governess who obtains a position taking care of two wealthy children and

who may or may not be haunted by the ghosts of servants past. It is this

uncertainty that makes for such an interesting story; the reader is never sure if

the spirits are real or if they are just figments of the governess’s imagination.

Reading the story from a Jungian point of view, however, suggests a third

possibility. The ghosts are real, almost in a corporeal sense, but they are not

spirits of the dead servants. They are physical manifestations that the governess

herself creates through her wrestling with her unconscious desires.

The novel was written at a time when spiritualism was being explored and

investigated. This wave of psychic interest began in the late 1840s with the Fox

family, three sisters who claimed to be mediums. Mysterious rapping noises

followed the girls, and it was said that they communicated with the dead.

Although one of the sisters later admitted to being a charlatan, the popularity for

necromancy remained strong at least through the early 20

century.

The number of home séances rose dramatically in the late 1800s, almost

to the level of parlor entertainment (Lamont 903). Also in fashion were

hypnotism and mesmerism, both of which assumed a sort of “mind over matter”

ideal. The idea that there was an untapped potential in the mind, or a bond with

the spirit world, both fascinated and horrified Victorian society. James was to

play on these emotions in The Turn of the Screw.

Henry James (1843 – 1916) was born to a highly educated family

fascinated with psychology and the occult. His father was a proponent of

Swedenborgianism, an eclectic mixture of Christian religion and occult mysticism.

Carl Jung was also well versed in the teachings of Swedenborg. “Seven

volumes of the Swedish scientist and visionary Emanuel Swedenborg, who

anticipated many modern discoveries in astronomy and neuroscience, as well as

Immanuel Kant’s study of Swedenborg, Dreams of a Spirit Seer - these and

other similar works occupied Jung as much as did his studies of anatomy,

physiology, and internal medicine” (Lachman postscript). We also know that, like

Swedenborg, Jung often entered trance states, where he claimed to see visions

and experience revelations.

In her article, “Through the Cracked and Fragmented Self,” Karen

Halttunen explores the relationship between The Turn of the Screw by Henry

James and the writings of his brother, William James. The latter was a famous

psychologist and paranormal investigator of the late nineteenth century, and the

author of Varieties of Religious Experience, which explores a correlation between

science and religion, and views the latter from a scientific point of view.

In addition, William founded the American branch of the Society for

Psychical Research. This organization had two main purposes – to actively

investigate the claims of mediums and spiritualists and to research and

document paranormal experiences. Henry would have been intensely familiar

with his brother’s work. He read aloud one of William’s papers, “Observations of

Certain Phenomena of Trance” to the Society; his brother’s writings doubtless

inspired his novels (Roellinger 403).

James wrote The Turn of the Screw at a significantly depressing point in

his life. He had recently written a play, “Guy Domville,” that was not well-

received, and he was ready to give up theater writing and concentrate on novels

and works of fiction. Telling ghost stories was popular among the Victorians,

especially at Christmastime, when the beginning of The Turn of the Screw is set.

It is not certain exactly how much psychological insight James

purposefully introduced in the novel. “This story, which James described in his

preface as a ‘fairy tale pure and simple’ and an “amusette to catch those not

easily caught,’ has inspired a corpus of critical commentary and debate which

seems vastly out of proportion to the real difficulties which the story presents”

(Bontly 721). Whatever his original intentions, it is safe to assume that James

included in it many of the beliefs and fears of his own time, not to mention the

influences of his brother and parents.

According to Francis Roellinger in “Psychical Research and ‘The Turn of

the Screw’” James drew from several sources to create his novel. It is commonly

accepted, even acknowledged by James himself, that he was highly influenced

by a story told by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Edward White Benson.

Benson’s story had similar features to The Turn of the Screw, most significantly

children who are predisposed to evil behavior and deceased servants who wish

to fully corrupt them.

James wrote the novel two years after hearing Benson’s tale, and it is

likely that he referenced several other sources, especially publications from the

Society for Psychical Research, of which his brother was a member. It is

significant that his ghosts are different from the typical Victorian Gothic horror

tales, and much more similar to the “real” accounts from the Society’s papers.

The typical Victorian ghost “is a fearsome being, dressed in a sweeping

sheet and shroud, carrying a lighted candle, and speaking in dreadful words from

fleshless lips” (Roellinger 405). In sharp contrast, James’ ghosts appear during

daylight hours (most often at twilight), often in reflections, and they do not speak

at all. This resembles at least a handful of famous ghost cases described by the

Society; Roellinger recounts three reports that are expressly similar to the

hauntings from The Turn of the Screw. In the first, a ghost haunts children who

do not report the sighting because they are not believed by the adults. The

second has a realistic female ghost dressed in black that resembles the

character of Miss Jessel. In the third, and most frightening, account the ghost

expressly comes with the purpose of “wanting” to possess or destroy the

governess. These accounts no doubt formed some of the plot elements in

James’ novel, along with the name of Quint, which appears in one of the

Society’s publications.

After James wrote The Turn of the Screw, his writing style grew

immensely more complicated, and he turned out such heavy works as The

Ambassadors and The Golden Bowl, which is often viewed as his masterpiece.

He became obsessed with intense character perspectives and moral questions.

As his writing style progressed, he returned to The Turn of the Screw to

make some alterations. He changed the ages of the children and turned the

governess’s ordeal into a far more perilous experience. “Analyzing James’s

revisions, Leon Edel noticed in his edition of The Ghostly Tales (1948) that the

changes betrayed James’s determination ‘to alter the nature of the governess’

testimony from that of a report of this observed, perceived, recalled to things felt’”

(Cranfill 39). In other words, James wished to draw the reader away from a

physical ghost story into a story of how the mind twists and shapes our

perception of the world, and the great dangers that lie therein.

The Turn of the Screw is a story within a story – told to the narrator

(presumably Henry James himself) at Christmas. A young governess finds her

first employment under the wealthy uncle of two small children, Miles and Flora.

The uncle charms her with his handsome face and grace, and she longs for his

approval. Once at his sprawling mansion in the countryside, she meets the

simple housekeeper, Mrs. Grose, and the children, who are almost too good to

be true. They are so angelic and perfect that it is hard to imagine that James

intended them to be real characters at all, but merely idyllic figures. They are

what Victorian England wished their children to be – good, beautiful, and

innocent.

Into this mix of purity and happiness is thrown a shadow. The governess

soon starts having visions of the former employees, Peter Quint and Miss Jessel.

Quint was the valet, with a wild, free attitude; Miss Jessel was the former

governess who had an illicit affair with Quint, who was well below her station.

This deed echoed the fear of Victorian society about the mingling of different

classes. Quint and Jessel are evil not simply because they were sexually open,

but because they had no respect for the proper class system. “The Victorian

body, social and individual, felt itself under perpetual assault from all quarters

within and without, and responded to the perceived threat by adopting manifold

defensive and retaliatory measures through various reform laws, regulations, and

forms of moral policing” (May 16). It is always a great fear throughout the novel

that the servants will “corrupt” the children. Indeed, if the governess is to be

believed, the children are already lost and corrupted.

There is evidence throughout the book that Miles and Flora have been

tutored in “being bad” by the spirits. Miles is suspended from boarding school for

an unnamed offense, steals a letter meant for his uncle, and sneaks out on the

grounds at night. His sister aids him in his plot. Readers are never sure if the

children really are becoming sinister or if the governess is merely exaggerating

the problems of normal child behavior. Is this pedestal on which she placed her

charges of her own making or society’s? If the latter, then is James agreeing

with society’s assumptions about children or is he trying to root out the flaws and

inconsistencies?

The governess spends a large amount of time suspicious of the children’s

motives, especially Miles’s. She goes through a good deal to make him confess

that he is being used by Quint. She finally gets an ambiguous acknowledgement

of Quint’s existence from him, but just as she is rejoicing about “winning”, Miles is

struck dead in her arms. Obviously, the governess was too concerned about

saving Miles from “corruption” and overlooked his physical danger. Once again,

this could be a comment on Victorian society, how it was so concerned with

heightened morals and proper behavior, yet could turn away from the physical

pain and suffering of many of the city workers (little children among them).

It is significant to note that, like the character in Du Maurier’s Rebecca,

1938, the young female protagonist of The Turn of the Screw is unnamed.

Throughout the novel, she is known simply as “the governess,” which achieves

two main effects. The first is that she is a blank slate upon which the reader can

project his or her own self and thus make the story personal and intimate. The

second effect is to make the character a universal figure, not limited to a certain

place or family, but encompassing, if not all of humankind, at least all naïve

young women of the mid-1800s. Thus, the governess is less a “real character”

and more Jung’s archetype of “the Maiden.” Unlike “the Maiden,” a pure and

innocent figure, our governess does not want to be rescued by a shining knight

(or in this case, wealthy playboy uncle). She vehemently protests against writing

the children’s uncle because she did not want to bother him and appear

defenseless. She strongly desires his affirmation and approval. She would often

daydream of meeting him in the gardens of the estate, and as she took her

evening walk, she dreamed that “Some one would appear there at the turn of a

path and would stand before me and smile and approve. I didn’t ask more than

that – I only asked that he should know; and the only way to be sure he knew

would be to see it, and the kind light of it, in his handsome face” (James 132).

Perhaps the very breaking away from the common maiden archetype leads to

disaster, and she should have involved the uncle instead of believing she could

handle such a delicate situation on her own.

For a woman of her life station, meeting the young, rich uncle was a new

experience for her. The daughter of a country parson, the governess had a

limited worldview. Her only knowledge of the outside world was through

literature, especially the works of Ann Radcliffe and Charlotte Bronte, “Was there

a ‘secret’ at Bly – a mystery of Udolpho or an insane, an unmentionable relative

kept in unsuspected confinement?” (James 134). Obviously, her first impression

of her new employer was a romantic one – not simply because of his wealth and

charm, but because of the influence of gothic literature, a genre that embraces

Shadow-like themes of passion and secrets. As an ingénue thrust into the “real”

world of responsibility and problems, it is little wonder that she gives in quickly to

her innermost passions.

Indeed, this emerging moment is the first time she is able to see herself,

both literally and figuratively. James plays on this notion by the number of

reflections in the book, particularly in mirrors and in the lake. “The large

impressive room, one of the best in the house…the long glasses in which, for the

first time, I could see myself from head to foot, all struck me – like the wonderful

appeal of my small charge – as so many things thrown in” (James 123). Of

significant note are the specters that often appear in these reflective surfaces.

Her second vision of Quint appears on the other side of window glass; her first of

Miss Jessel is across the lake. Considering these instances from a Jungian point

of view, one can conclude that what the governess is seeing is her own self, her

inner, dark self, shining back at her. Her Shadow is manifesting itself for her.

Being so naïve and sheltered, however, she does not recognize it as an

extension of her psyche, but imagines two different characters, the Animus and

Anima, or masculine and feminine archetypes.

Of significance is the time of day when she sees these apparitions. Peter

Quint first appears on the castle tower at twilight. The second encounter occurs

also early in the evening, when the total clarity of the situation might be

obscured. “The day was grey enough, but the afternoon light still lingered, and it

enabled me, on crossing the threshold…to become aware of a person on the

other side of the window and looking straight in” (James 137-138). That these

appearances should occur at twilight is not a coincidence. The governess is

caught between two worlds – between day and night, pure innocence and worldly

evil, the conscious and the unconscious.

For most people, the natural reaction to seeing a ghost is fear for one’s

own safety and sanity. With tragic consequences, however, the governess does

not consider bodily harm from the spirits at all. Her main fear is that the specters

intend to “corrupt” the children. She views Miles and Flora as paragons of pure

innocence and virtue, whom she must defend against the forces of carnal

knowledge. It is not clear that she sees the children as human beings with the

capability to sin; instead, they are cherubs that represent goodness and should

never be tainted. Noting an early encounter with Flora, the governess writes:

“[she had] the deep sweet serenity indeed of one of Raphael’s holy infants”

(James 124), while she describes Miles as “incredibly beautiful…everything but a

sort of passion of tenderness for him was swept away by his presence. What I

then and there took him to my heart for was something divine that I have never

found to the same degree in any child – his indescribable little air of knowing

nothing in the world but love” (James 130).

However, this view does not seem to be truly accurate. Miles is expelled

from a Victorian boarding school for an unmentioned offense, and he both

sneaks out of bed at night and steals a letter. “[Miles’s] hints at blackmail, for

example, of how he could expose the governess, are not quite what one would

expect from the pure child” (Tuveson 790). This act of treachery perfectly

played into the Victorian fear of servants wrongfully influencing their children’s

morals. This fear is strong in the governess, yet she refuses to accept that the

children are in any way personally responsible for their behavior. If they are

corrupt, it is not because they are naturally prone to evil, but because they were

turned that way by the lower class. The lower class is the corrupting influence on

the wealthy and protected; it represents the base desires of the id and the

corruption of the human spirit.

To view the children as perfectly good and the spirits as perfectly evil puts

the governess in a precarious middle position. She becomes a self-appointed

guardian between the two extremes, a twilight figure of herself. Nowhere is this

more evident than the night when she views Miles on the lawn from her window

as he looks at something (presumably Quint) above her. “The moon made the

night extraordinarily penetrable and showed me on the lawn a person, diminished

by distance, who stood there motionless and as if fascinated, looking up to where

I had appeared – looking, that is, not so much straight at me as at something that

was apparently above me. There was clearly another person above me – there

was a person on the tower” (James 166). The governess is both literally and

symbolically caught in the middle; below her lies her innocent past life with which

she is familiar, while above her lies the Shadow, her innermost desires and

possible self-revelation.

Eventually it becomes clear that the governess is frightened not so much

for the children as for herself. Like Miles and Flora, she presents herself in an

honest, upright light. Her stirrings for the children’s uncle are new to her and

have left her unprepared for the encounters with her base desires. Quint is also

described as a handsome womanizer; at first, our heroine mistakes him for the

uncle. “[Mrs. Grose] tried visibly to hold herself. ‘But he is handsome?’ I saw

the way to help her. ‘Remarkably!’” (James 142). Later Mrs. Grose, the

housekeeper, remarks that Quint and Miss Jessel, the former governess, had an

affair. The governess is taken aback by this prospect, as if such flings were

unthinkable, especially as Quint is below Miss Jessel’s station. Of course, the

governess is also far below the master’s station, but that did not stop her

fantasies about the children’s uncle. As Mrs. Grose notes, the governess might

be more afraid about her emerging feelings (the Shadow part of her persona)

than about the children’s innocence. “She stared, taking my meaning in; but it

produced in her an odd laugh. ‘Are you afraid he’ll corrupt you?’” (James 128).

Indeed, the more the governess interacts with the ghosts, the more she

sees a bit of herself in them. “[Quint] remained but a few seconds…but it was as

if I had been looking at him for years and had known him always” (James 138).

She slowly begins to recognize them as parts of herself, although she never

consciously acknowledges this change.

James’s brother, William, is credited with identifying and naming the

“hypnagogic state” which is the period between sleep and waking, in which our

subconscious and conscious merge, and we see apparitions. Jung would have

identified with this concept, as his mother (who some scholars argue was

mentally unstable) often claimed she saw spirits in her room at night. If we read

The Turn of the Screw through the lens of James’ psychology, it is obvious that

the governess is hallucinating the ghosts. Halttunen points out that every time

the governess sees Quint, it is twilight, corresponding with the twilight between

sleep and waking. “Similarly, it may be psychologically significant that both Quint

and Miss Jessel appear on the staircase, the route by which we pass from

waking to sleeping and back again” (Halttunen 475).

This theory connects with Jung’s concept of the Shadow. It is in this

hypnagogic state that our consciousness is at its most vulnerable and

susceptible to our unconscious influences. This could easily explain why the

governess sees the figures she despises at twilight. Interesting to note is her first

vision of Quint. She is expecting to see the children’s uncle, the master of the

house; she has been fantasizing about meeting him again. But whom she

actually sees is his deceased valet. Instead of a refined gentleman of class and

character, Quint is a devilish rascal. Yet they are both exceedingly handsome

and very popular with the ladies. Together they represent the two sides of every

human; like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, they are the positive and negative energies

we all possess.

Even from childhood, Jung was intensely familiar with the twilight period.

His grandparents were spiritualists, and his mother was a devoted believer in the

occult (and famous among the family as psychically gifted). She claimed to have

a dual personality, being able to transcend this world and enter the next. “At

times, we are told, she was very ordinary, and at other times betrayed uncanny

perception that could only be regarded as parapsychological” (Charet 69).

Jung’s mother firmly believed spirits were visiting her at night. “In the

daytime she was ‘hearty with animal warmth,’ but at night she became much

more aware of the supernatural” (Moore 187). The visions intensified until her

waking hours were spent in anticipation of the nightly visits. Jung himself had

numerous encounters with the spirit world, confirming his mother’s statements.

“One night I saw coming from her door a faintly luminous, indefinite figure whose

head detached…and floated along in front of it” (Charet 248).

Jung would argue that whether or not the spirits are actually physically

present is not important; what matters is that the governess sees and believes in

them. Therefore, they are integral to her psyche and offer insight into her

unconscious. He would advise her to cease fighting with the visions and instead

welcome them into her mind and try to communicate with them. They are

obviously sending her a message that is vital to her growth and development.

Jung not only actively encouraged his own dreams and visions, he

recorded them. His Red Book is his masterpiece, a culmination of years of

struggle and thought. It is where he recorded his psychic experiences, journeys

of imagination, and connections with the collective unconscious of humankind.

He tells of his innermost thoughts through text, illuminations, and pictures.

Venturing into the Red Book is literally a journey into the unconscious psyche of

a genius. As Jung put it, “The years…when I pursued the inner images, were the

most important of my life. Everything else is to be derived from this…the

numinous beginning, which contained everything, was then” (Jung, Red Book

cover).

Jung began the Red Book after his break with Freud in 1912. Although

they had originally much in common (Jung even defending Freud’s views at the

Amsterdam Conference), they disagreed with the fundamental origin of

psychosis and unconscious desires. Freud focused heavily on the sexual

aspects while Jung was drawn more to the occult and parapsychology. On

reading The Turn of the Screw, Freud would likely have seen the governess’s

visions as the sexual repressions of a young, naïve Victorian girl. Jung,

however, would have been more interested in the universal aspects of the spirits,

as well as the governess’s personal journey through her unconscious psyche.

He most likely would have argued that by confronting the spirits, she would have

come to grips with her own inner self and grown from the experience.

It is obvious that Henry James is making a strong point about society and

a young woman’s enslavement by it. It is important to recognize that the

governess’s repressions are not merely of a sexual nature. She has been stifled

on many of her freedoms of expression, her ability to find a job (since women

were extremely limited in employment opportunities), and her marriage and

lifestyle choices. The governess has grown up extremely repressed, the way a

“proper” lady should be taught. While the Victorians would have seen nothing

amiss about this instruction, it is both limiting and constricting, especially to a

young woman on the cusp of adulthood. This has led her to dangerous naiveté,

with actual lethal consequences. Because she has never been allowed to

express herself or discover her true inner self, she makes numerous errors in

judgment and emotional behaviors.

First, based on physical appearances alone, she falls in love with a man

she has only just met; this is likely because of her sheltered existence and lack of

involvement with men outside of her family. She tries to take on more than she

can handle for fear of disappointing her employer, for competence and

unobtrusiveness were Victorian female values. She handles the children poorly

due to her irrational fears and visions (especially if we are to conclude that the

spirits are not real in the corporeal sense). In other words, what society has

conditioned her to do, especially to ignore her instincts for seeking help, has

condemned her to a horrifying experience and potentially killed a young boy.

James seems to suggest that the events that occur are not the governess’

fault, but the fault of society for not better preparing her for what she will

encounter. In all respects, she has grown up a perfect Victorian female, always

under the careful tutelage of social repression, and she is unable to deal with the

“real world” that she encounters. Jung would argue that if she were able to have

confronted her demons earlier, then she might not have had the same terrifying

experiences at the manor house. A subtle commentary on Victorian society, The

Turn of the Screw acknowledges the Jungian concept that repressing the

Shadow has dangerous, even potentially lethal consequences.

Dracula

Published in 1897, Bram Stoker’s Dracula preys on the fears of Victorian

society. It is the story of an old European vampire who moves to “modern”

England to corrupt and destroy Western society at its peak. Stoker used the

ancient legends of the vampire as fodder for his comparison and collision of

ancient and contemporary worlds.

The idea of vampires, or blood-sucking creatures, exists in many cultures

worldwide. West Africa has the asasabonsam, a tree-dwelling creature with iron

teeth. The hantu saburo is an Indian being who can command dogs, similar to

Dracula commanding the wolves that hunt Harker, the real estate salesman. In

China, the chiang-shi could be kept at bay by running water or garlic

(Konstantinos 26).

But the vampires that captured the imagination of Victorians were from

Eastern Europe, particularly Romania. According to legends, these vampires,

called “strigoi,” were corpses that rose from their graves at night to feed on the

living. The idea did not become popular in Western Europe until the publication

of The Vampyre, in 1819. This novel, by John William Polidori, conceives of a

vampire not as a foul, bloated carcass, but as a irresistible gentleman who

seduces women in order to feed upon them. This image obviously inspired

Stoker’s adaptation of a proper vampire.

The vampires in Victorian England were frightening as more than just

deadly creatures. They represented the idea that ancient concepts could meet

modern progress and potentially destroy the idealistic world the Victorians had

created. Vampires signified sexual freedom and promiscuity, particularly for

women, concepts which were unheard of in 19

century Britain. Stoker

capitalized on this fear with Dracula.

Bram Stoker (1847-1912) was an Irish novelist and the manager of the

Lyceum Theatre in London. A sickly child, he was confined to bed for much of

his early life, where his mother entertained him with horror stories. As an adult,

he wrote over fifteen books and short stories, including the terrifying tale of “The

Judge’s House,” but none ever reached the popularity of Dracula.

To make the novel seem more attainable to readers, Stoker wrote the

novel as a series of letters and journal entries (much as today’s horror

filmmakers create fictional “documentaries” to create doubt about how much truth

the story holds). The main characters are Harker, his devoted wife Mina, her

friend Lucy, the aged professor Van Helsing, and of course, the bloodthirsty

Count Dracula and his three ghastly wives.

Dracula begins with the journey of the real estate agent Harker to the

wilds of Transylvania to meet with the mysterious Count Dracula, who wishes to

buy an estate in England. Although repeatedly warned not to venture further, he

does not heed the natives' advice and eventually finds himself in the crumbling

castle of the Count. The entire affair is strange to him, as the Count's "foreign"

ways, like not dining with his guest and not employing any servants, are

unsettling. He soon finds, however, that Dracula is not human; he is a demonic

creature who preys on humans during the night and retires to his coffin at

sunrise. The vampire is also polygamous, bringing home small children as

dinner for his three beautiful wives. The women try, nearly successfully, to

seduce Harker and drink his blood, but Dracula stops them. However, Harker is

in shock and mortal fear, especially as he spies his host crawling down the side

of the castle like vermin. He cannot leave, as the mountains are full of wolves,

which Dracula mentally controls. He sells the Count the property in England,

thus allowing him access to the Western world.

Back at home, the two main female characters, Mina (Harker's betrothed)

and Lucy, are perfect models of feminine virtue and charm, beautiful, extremely

pale, and easy prey to the "foreign" Count Dracula. Lucy succumbs to him first,

as night after night she allows him to feed on her and grows ever weaker. The

doctors are particularly useless, consistently leaving Lucy alone at night and

failing to pay any attention to the signs (granted, vampirism is not scientific, but it

was obvious that something from the outside was intruding and draining her

blood). Their attempts at curing her fail, and Lucy eventually perishes, despite

being given blood transfusions by four men.

But Lucy is not wholly dead; she now exists in the twilight realm of the

"undead" as a fledgling vampire. She kidnaps small children and drinks their

blood at night. It takes Van Helsing quite some effort to convince the other men

what exactly is going on, but finally her fiancé kills her by driving a stake through

her heart as she sleeps in her coffin. They then remove her head so she cannot

return to life, and continue on their hunt for Dracula. By now Mina has begun

exhibiting the same signs as Lucy, yet the men think of it as simply the weakness

of being a woman, and ignore it completely.

Finally, after a journey back to Transylvania, the men encounter and

destroy Dracula. Dr. Morris stabs him in the heart, and for a minute, Mina sees a

look of intense peace on the vampire’s face. His impalement was his salvation,

and it goes with the Victorian Christian theme that everyone can be saved and

redeemed in the end, no matter how evil.

In “A Vampire in the Mirror,” John Stevenson argues that Dracula, at its

heart, is a Freudian struggle against a father figure. Dracula himself is ancient,

having fought in the glorious wars of yesteryear, and yet he attempts to possess

two young women who are both starting on their own romantic relationships. The

struggle with the young men, therefore, is not merely against the forces of evil,

but the forces of age. From a Jungian perspective, Dracula’s age could

represent tradition and primitivism. Without constant feeding upon the young

(today’s society), tradition will become obsolete and eventually vanish. Therefore

it is necessary for it to impress itself upon the youth of today in order to become

relevant for tomorrow.

The novel begins with the Count being rather old, but as he feeds on the

young women, he begins to grow younger. The women are adding to his virility

and giving their bodies as fodder for his youth. Harker notices that the second

time he encounters Dracula, he has darker hair and seems more youthful. The

connection of evil and youth is repeated in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, in which the

protagonist states after his transformation, “I felt younger, lighter, happier in

body” (Stevenson 62).

Not only is Count Dracula ancient, but he is also foreign, therefore

retaining some “old world” charm and spells to work against the women. The

other men, with the exception of Van Helsing, are British and American, up-and-

coming and modern, reveling in the world of science and psychology. Dracula is

from a land of superstition and magic, a darker part of their history that is still a

part of them, no matter how much they struggle against it.

At the turn of the century, England was at the height of its colonial power,

but also having extensive problems in the Boer War and putting down the

rebellions in Africa. Dracula was frightening to many Victorians because it

represented a role reversal. Instead of the British invading and conquering

another country, the foreign Count was invading England and threatening both

the lives and the lifestyles of the inhabitants. Observe the apparent xenophobia

of a foreign man lusting after a white European woman: “He was looking at her

so hard that he did not see either of us…[his] face was not a good face; it was

hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all the whiter

because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal’s” (Stoker 192).

Count Dracula is the epitome of the foreign warrior. He is often described

as peculiar looking, with massive eyebrows that meet in the center. His smell is

odious and his skin is off-color. Stoker makes a strong point of mentioning the

skin tones of the characters. “That it is racial, and not personal, becomes clear

when we note how Stoker consistently uses a combination of red and white to

indicate either incipient or completed vampirism” (Stevenson 141). His

foreignness extends far beyond race, however. He is not even fully human, and

is often compared to various animals. “The animal image is equally appropriate

in Dracula’s case [as in Dr. Jekyll’s]. This is largely suggested by his landing in

England in canine form, through his nocturnal incarnation as a wolf, and crawling

‘face down’ like a bat” (Elbarbary 125).

Dracula’s victims undergo a change in their skin color as he feeds off of

them (thus tainting them). To protect Mina, Van Helsing scars her forehead with

the Host. “The scar, a concentration of red and white that closely resembles the

mark on Dracula’s own forehead, thus becomes a kind of caste mark, a sign of

membership in a homogeneous group – and a group that is foreign to the men to

whom Mina supposedly belongs” (Stevenson 141). Despite never actually

becoming a vampire, Mina is nevertheless a marked woman now for her

association with the foreign stranger.

It is this very foreignness that assigns Dracula to the primary role of the

Shadow in the novel. He comes from Eastern Europe, and the “east” is generally

seen as old and archaic, if not primitive. “A marked premise of nineteenth-

century ideology, generating more colonial rhetoric, is the superiority of the white

races in the evolutionary scheme to the ‘primitive’ or ‘savage’” (Elbarbary 113).

Progress, expansion, revolutions, and science are all seen as moving steadily

westward; the young America was at the forefront of invention and discovery, all

epitomized in the character of Quincey, the wealthy Texan who also loves Lucy.

To return to the East is a return to one’s roots, including the hidden past and dark

desires of yesterday; it is decidedly unsafe, not just with the physical danger of

vampires and wolves, but the drastic spiritual danger of becoming one of those

very creatures. The closer one comes to Dracula’s castle, the greater the

chances of seduction and conversion. “Dracula is the signifier of insanity, which

seems to have infected all the male characters – a collective hysteria” (Elbarbary

120). Likewise, as we explore the Shadow within ourselves, we must be

extremely careful to always retain of sense of our humanity (as Van Helsing did

with the placement of the Host). Facing the Shadow the first step of

individuation, or becoming a whole person (which will be discussed later in this

thesis). Jung believed the drive towards individuation becomes stronger in the

later part of life, after a traumatic event or a profound self-realization or doubt.

Jung claimed that his own individuation began after his separation from Freud in

1913.

As Jung explained: "The collaboration of the unconscious is intelligent and

purposive, and even when it acts in opposition to consciousness its expression is

still compensatory in an intelligent way, as if it were trying to restore the lost

balance” (Shirmacher 146). Obviously the unconscious operates as if it has a

plan and a purpose, as well as an awareness of the outside world. The crisis

that happens in midlife is constructed by the unconsciousness to allow for an

epiphany or revelation.

Dracula may be a foreign creature, but he is enough like the heroes to

terrify the Victorian readers. He functions as the physical representation of the

Shadow – where Harker has restraint, the Count has passion. Harker fights for

love and country, Dracula to satisfy his own primal hunger. Both, however, fight

to gain control over the British women.

The two primary females in Dracula, Lucy and Mina, function less as

characters in their own right and more as the archetypes of the Maiden and the

Mother, respectively. Lucy, as an unmarried innocent, is wholly dependent on

others (mostly male) to rescue her. Dressed in white, the symbol of purity, she is

virginal and untouched when Dracula begins to feed on her. Of note is how she

is treated by the male characters, much as a child, as in Victorian society,

children and women were given basically the same status. Observe the

remonstration she is given by Dr. Van Helsing:

“[Van Helsing] opened it with much impressment – assumed, of course –

and showed a great bundle of white flowers. ‘These are for you, Miss Lucy,’ he

said. ‘For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!’ ‘Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with.

These are medicines.’ Here Lucy made a wry face” (Stoker 146).

Lucy is a fully grown woman about to be married and start a family of her

own, yet she is treated as a child who is interested in playthings. It is not just

Van Helsing who is condescending and patronizing; the other male characters

treat the females in the same manner, with a mixture of reverence and

haughtiness.

When the men discover that Lucy has become “tainted” by Dracula

sucking her blood, they attempt to restore her by giving their own blood. First to

donate is her future husband, which, they agree, is the only correct way to

proceed. The other men donate in turn, as each have a certain claim over Lucy

(at least three of them were her suitors). Dr. Seward describes it thus: “It was

with a feeling of personal pride that I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back

into the pallid cheeks and lips. No man knows, til he experiences it, what it is to

feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves” (Stoker

144).

The men here function on more than one level. On the most basic, they

are simply human characters who give their blood to a fellow human who has lost

much of hers. However, they are also males, sustaining the life of a female, who

could not possibly exist without them. It is significant that none of the women

donate blood at all; Van Helsing does not ask the housemaid if she could help

with the transfusion. All the blood must come from the men and flow into the

women. This coincides with the proper female role in Victorian times, that of a

weak flower entirely supported and enlivened by the stronger males. Stoker

makes no pretense of this fact, “Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder.

‘Come!’ he said. ‘You are a man, and it is a man we want” (Stoker 137).

On the highest level, this transfusion scene is a Jungian analogy of

civilization’s influence on the individual. Lucy, as passive and near death,

functions in the role of the individual, to whom society feels it must give life. She

is incapable of making any decisions on her own and must feed on the more

competent figures who are assertive and dominating. Exploring her Shadow

would be willingly letting Dracula feed on her blood; yes, it causes pain and

death, but it also give her an enormous amount of strength and power, as seen

when she comes back from the dead.

In contrast with Lucy, Mina functions more as a motherly figure, doing

chores for the men and transcribing their notes. Eventually, she comes across

less as an actual character and more as a glorified secretary. She is a non-

threatening female, the epitome of Victorian sensibilities. As soon as the men tell

her to stay out of the Dracula affair, she willingly steps back (a contrived and

unrealistic plot device, to be sure). She admits disappointment, but knows the

men are just doing it for her own good. Her personal feelings are thrown off as

unimportant and even childish. As she journals, “They all agreed that it was best

that I should not be drawn further into this awful work, and I acquiesced. But to

think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am crying like a silly fool, when

I know it comes from my husband’s great love and from the good, good wishes of

those other strong men” (Stoker 286). Although their lack of discernment borders

on frightening (leaving a vulnerable character in potential danger), the men feel

they must face the Count on their own to regain the manliness he has stolen from

them.

In sharp contrast to Lucy and Mina are Dracula’s three wives who assault

Harker early in the novel and the group later. Just like the Count is a Shadow

form of the male characters, they represent a different kind of female character –

open, uninhibited, and completely self-centered. They are alluring to the men

because of their very open sexuality, but also repulsive because they are not as

virtuous as the British women (the ones that the men have learned are the proper

kind for them to want). Harker’s experience with them is quite different from his

relationship with Mina. “There was something about them that made me feel

uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart

a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips” (Stoker 45).

Here Harker is playing the passive role, simply lying on the sofa in a daze;

it is the women who are approaching him. Obviously, his desire would not be

accepted in Victorian society. According to Christopher Craft, “Harker awaits an

erotic fulfillment that entails both the dissolution of the boundaries of the self and

the thorough subversion of conventional Victorian gender codes, which

constrained the mobility of sexual desire…by according to the more active male

the right and responsibility of vigorous appetite, while requiring the more passive

female to ‘suffer and be still’” (Craft 108). By his traveling to the East, Harker has

opened himself up to his Shadow, and all the unconscious desires and fears with

which it comes. Part of this experience is the open desire for the women, even

though he knows that Mina will not be pleased in reading about the account in his

diary.

So far, it seems as if Bram Stoker has been glorifying Victorian values,

demonstrating how purity, modesty, and decorum will ultimately triumph over

chaotic, foreign influences. Indeed, this has often been an interpretation of

Dracula’s message. However, in her essay, “Nonstandard Language and the

Cultural Stakes of Stoker’s Dracula,” Christine Ferguson suggests an entirely

new premise. Her article is dedicated to “showing how Dracula, long a seminal

text in the mythology of Victorian paranoia, anathematizes the very values of

conformity, sameness, and hierarchy it is said to engender” (Ferguson 229).

She argues, quite correctly, that the Count is really not such a powerful

monster at all. His early successes rely on his very foreignness; once his inner

mechanics, as well as his weaknesses, are understood by the characters, he is

easily defeated. Consider his limitations – he cannot enter a house uninvited,

sleeps during the day, and is easily fended off by crucifixes, communion wafers,

and garlic. Along with a number of other disabilities, this villain primarily

functions through the “modern ignorance” of the rest of the characters. “His few

successes in England are the result not of evil omnipotence but of the ignorance

of his victim’s protectors” (Ferguson 230). If the men had only taken more care

to watch Lucy and Mina, or somehow warn them of their symptoms, the novel

would be extremely short and rather dull. It is through their own mistakes that

the characters are bitten or attacked. Reading through the novel a second time,

one can easily see numerous ways that Lucy’s death and Mina’s injury could

have been prevented. The fact that they were not taken places fault not on the

rather incompetent count (as Ferguson notes, one victim in six months is

extremely poor showing), but on the upstanding, virtuous Victorians and their

flawed system.

What, then, is Stoker trying to say about society and how does this relate

to the Shadow concept? If we are to read Dracula as a commentary against

Victorian values, some interesting concepts come to light. The men ultimately do

a dismal role in their job as protectors; of the two women, one died from blood

loss and the other was turned into a vampire’s pawn. Obviously not letting the

women be privy to their plans, as well as being too overconfident, had fatal

consequences. The reader can see how Stoker is attempting to show the

potential flaws of a male-dominated society. This is reinforced by the fact that

they only succeed in finding Dracula because of Mina’s psychic connection with

him. Without a woman to aid them, they are powerless. When it comes to

fighting the influence of the Shadow (or foreign influences), the typical Western

Victorian method is simply ineffective.

If we read Dracula from the Jungian perspective previously described,

then how can it relate to the idea that the novel is critical of Victorian society?

We have already seen that the Western Victorians were terrified of foreign

influence, as the individual has a personal crisis with his Shadow. Dracula’s

invasion of England represents the Shadow influencing a person’s

unconsciousness and causing havoc and stress. The men in Dracula respond

with traditional methods of repelling evil, with very limited success (by all

accounts, a failure). Likewise, if we try to force our Shadow away through

conscious effort, we risk damaging the psyche, even if successful. In other

words, as it would have been preferable for the men to include the women in

their fight against evil, a “progressive” idea that would have been uncomfortable

at first but ultimately successful, so too would it be healthier to embrace one’s

unconscious desires. This is not to say, of course, that Dracula / Shadow should

win full control, in which chaos would ensue. But with acknowledgement that

such desires exist, it is possible to come to terms with them, provided that one is

willing to give up complete control of all of one’s desires, both conscious and

unconscious.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.

Hyde (hereafter referred to as simply Jekyll) in 1886, after he had already risen to

prominence with Treasure Island and Kidnapped. A sickly child, like Stoker, he

had plenty of time to dream fantasies and wild tales, with Jekyll being his most

horrific. There really is no better example of the Victorian abhorrence and

fascination with the primitive than this story. There is a resemblance to Dracula,

in the idea of an unknown entity prowling the streets of London and devouring its

pure civilians. But while the Count was a foreigner invading England, Hyde is in

his core a British gentleman. It is England invading England now – the dark and

hidden Shadow of its underworld.

The story is narrated by Jekyll’s best friend, Mr. Utterson, and the full plot

is revealed through two letters at the end. The novel functions in two capacities.

In the first reading, it is simply a mystery novel; subsequent explorations reveal a

tale of quiet horror, a morality battle between good and evil, and a Jungian view

of human nature.

We see our first glance of the Shadow in the dreams of Utterson. He does

not yet know what Mr. Hyde looks like, so he dreams of a faceless Shadow figure

who terrorizes London. In one of his most telling dreams, though, “he would see

a room in a rich house, where his friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his

dreams; and then the door of that room would be opened, the curtains of the bed

plucked apart, the sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure

to whom power was given, and even at the at dead hour, he must rise and do its

bidding” (Stevenson 14). It is appropriate that the Shadow should first arrive in

Utterson’s dreams, for as C. G. Seligman explains, “Jung…regards the dream as

an attempt (usually by way of analogy) at adaptation to present or future

demands or difficulties, while it has been suggested that one function of the

dream is to make some of life’s problems clearer to the dreamer” (Seligman 188).

To fully appreciate Utterson’s Shadow dreams, we must first examine his

nature. To the reader, Jekyll’s best friend is a rather boring individual, serving

more as a simple observer than a dynamic, active character. He is an

outstanding member of Victorian society, keeping rigid routines and a tight

schedule. “It was his custom of a Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close

by the fire, a volume of some dry divinity on his reading desk, until the hour of

twelve, when he would go soberly and gratefully to bed” (Stevenson 12). He

socializes with only the finest company and always executes the proper moral

choice. In other words, he functions more as a foil to the Jekyll / Hyde dynamic

than a person in his own right.

Understanding Utterson’s character, as well as Jung’s beliefs about

dreaming, allows us to piece together this first, and integral Shadow experience.

Of course there is the prediction of his future meeting with Hyde; this correctly

corresponds to Jung’s beliefs in dreams’ potential for foreshadowing. But it is

more than simply a plot device to further the horror story; a middle-aged Utterson

has reached a crisis point in his own life. It is only natural that he has begun to

question his purpose, whether everything he has suppressed has been for his

overall benefit. These dreams are the catalyst to shake him from his own

slumber. After the horrific visages, he meets with Jekyll to discuss the latter’s

will. Normally, protocol would dictate that he refrain from prying, as he mentions

when first hearing the story of Hyde, but now he dares to explore the darker side

of human nature (albeit however lightly). The dreams have spurred him to

action. Jekyll, therefore, is not merely about one man’s escape into his Shadow

self; it is about another’s awakening to his own conscience and desires.

Even the architecture of Jekyll’s own laboratory hints at the presence of

the Shadow in Victorian life. Observe the details that Stevenson writes about the

street, “Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay

comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy

neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-

polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught

and pleased the eye of the passenger” (Stevenson 6). If one wishes to look at

this novel through a Jungian viewpoint (and possesses a passion for analogies),

it is easy to see that the street represents an idealistic Victorian Britain. The

“dingy neighborhood” is the rest of Europe; in the late 1800’s, the British Empire

considered itself “master of the world,” and rightly so. At its peak in the early 20

century, it held stakes in Australia, India, South Africa, and Canada.

If the street represents England, then Jekyll’s laboratory is definitely its

dark underbelly. “It was two storeys high…and bore in every feature, the marks

of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither

bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess

and struck matches on the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the

schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings” (Stevenson 6).

When Hyde’s actual appearance is shown, the horrendous effect is not

lessened. Hyde is shorter, smaller, and younger than Henry Jekyll, and

extremely hairy. As Utterson’s friend Mr. Enfield describes, “There is something

wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-right

detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scare know why. He must

be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I

couldn’t specify the point” (Stevenson 10). Hyde’s short stature represents

Jekyll’s repressed nature. For too long has he kept his evil self under wraps,

stunting his inner growth and forcing his unconscious desires to conform to

modern civilized expectations. It is interesting that Stevenson chose to represent

Hyde as a primitive human, almost Neanderthal in looks and stature. He is

compared to both a troglodyte and an ape.

This primitivism is anathema to Victorian England, and like Dracula, is

frightening on multiple levels. Here it is not a foreign creature that has invaded

their shores; it is the Shadow of all humans, even the “respectable” ones. If an

upstanding gentlemen of British breeding could give in to the Shadow urges and

become one of these creatures, then no one was safe from its influences.

It is important to understand that this is not a simple tale of good vs. evil,

as it has often been represented in the movie adaptations. Stevenson never

meant for Dr. Jekyll to be purely virtuous; instead, he is a mixture of good and

evil. He states in his letter to Utterson, “I saw that, of the two natures that

contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be

either, it was only because I was radically both” (Stevenson 60). Hyde has

always inhabited his body, but until he drinks the potion, he has managed to

keep him in check. If Jekyll was a moral character to begin with, and was

genuinely trying to stamp out his evil side by creating a dualistic persona, Hyde

would have been a morally pure character.

Instead, what proceeds from the transformation is a twisted, diabolical

character whose only concern is his own satisfaction and self-preservation.

Hyde is not afraid to step on (both figuratively and literally) anyone who gets in

his way, eventually resulting to murdering Sir Danvers Carew, a respected

member of Parliament. This action results in his having to flee from police and

the public, taking refuge in the guise of Dr. Jekyll.

It is interesting to discuss Hyde’s first (known) victim. Here he mimics

Dracula, who, when he invaded England, chose one of the frail and virtuous

British women to seduce and destroy. Hyde’s first choice is even more

horrifying; he crushes a young flower girl beneath his feet. As Utterson is

informed by a witness, “All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was

stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or

ten was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two

ran into one another naturally enough at the corner and then came the horrible

part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her

screaming on the ground” (Stevenson 7). Like Dracula, Hyde is a threat to the

females of society, in this instance a little girl, who represent the innocence and

virtues of the Victorian era that must be protected at all costs.

His next victim is Sir Danvers, a respected man of Parliament. He is

almost the complete opposite of the young girl as seen in the society of the time;

while she is youthful and naïve, he is elderly and wise. Both, however, carry a

need to be deeply respected and protected; they are physically and socially

vulnerable to the evil that is Hyde. Both Dracula and Hyde are targeting the very

root of society, the very essence of Victorian civilization.

At first glance, the Jekyll/Hyde relationship seems almost perfect. Jekyll is

allowed to retain his respectable nature, conversing with his wealthy and

distinguished friends, and spiritually benefiting by contributing to society. When

he wants to explore his darker side, he has merely to drink a potion and unleash

Mr. Hyde, a man who looks so physically different from him that none of the

former’s actions can ever be traced. Hyde is free to commit all sorts of heinous

crimes without fear of being caught, since he can always revert into his Jekyll

appearance.

However, reality does not flow as smoothly as theory. Jekyll soon finds

that he cannot control when Hyde will appear, thus endangering both his secret

and his safety. He awakens one morning to find himself transformed without the

aid of his potion. “But the hand which I now saw, clearly enough, in the yellow

light of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the bedclothes, was lean,

corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair.

It was the hand of Edward Hyde” (Stevenson 66). In a panic, he begins to realize

that once the dam has been opened, it is impossible to hold back the flood, and

Hyde will be contained at will no longer.

Eventually, Jekyll cannot make any more potion to switch bodies again.

The material he had used for the first batch turned out to be impure, and it is

impossible to recreate the same ingredients. This material symbolizes his own

inner self. He is not a wholly “pure” figure, morally upright, but a flawed mixture.

That is the reason the potion worked to bring out his Hyde self; the impurity of the

material drew forth the impurity of Jekyll. As Hyde represents the Shadow, the

mixture must show how we cannot reach that part of ourselves without venturing

into unpurified and untried methods.

Jekyll realizes that he is trapped in the body of Hyde. He cannot change

back, no matter how desperately he works. If he leaves the safety of his

laboratory, he will be hanged for murder. But as he stays, the servants are

getting suspicious, alerting Mr. Utterson to their master’s absence. Eventually,

Jekyll as Hyde commits suicide rather than face capture.

The death of Jekyll / Hyde raises an interesting point. Presumably, it is

Hyde who is in control of the making the decision at this point. Jekyll even

muses in his final letter to Utterson, “Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he

find courage to release himself at the last moment?” (Stevenson 75). So it is

Hyde, and not Jekyll, who kills himself. Only the dark side has the courage to

ultimately be free; Jekyll, despite his “good intentions,” is not able to perform the

act, and does not even attempt it. Despite the horrible personality and lack of

morals, Hyde is the only one with backbone and strength.

An interesting comparison can be made with the 1960’s television show

Star Trek; in the episode “The Enemy Within,” a transporter malfunction

separates Captain Kirk into his two personalities – one kind and good-natured,

the other lustful and violent. Obviously taking its source from Stevenson’s works,

the show portrays the “evil” Kirk as the strong type; in fact, the “good” Kirk

realizes that he cannot make important command decisions or function properly

without his darker self. The Shadow is vital to our very survival; it is the instinct

that kicks in when our conscious psyche has given up to despair. One could

argue that killing Hyde was a moral act, as he was an abomination to Victorian

society. If so, then Hyde committing suicide can be seen as him performing a

moral act, whether intentional or not.

However, Stevenson made it extremely clear that everything Hyde did was

solely for his own selfish purposes. There was not an altruistic bone in his body.

Indeed, his very selfishness was what formed his identity. Here was a person

completely unimpressed with society’s limitations. Like the titular Dracula and

Kurtz from Heart of Darkness, Hyde is the embodiment of all the primitivism that

Victorians abhorred and feared. “The discourse of primitivism is at the core of

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde…Jekyll attributes the brutality of Hyde to a vehement

attachment of self” (Elbarbary 123).

This fact gives two possibilities about Hyde’s suicide. First, and most

generally accepted, is that he killed himself because he did not wish to be

publicly tried and hanged. However, this flies in the very nature of Hyde himself.

He is not a gentlemen; he cares nothing for what society thinks. Why, then,

would he care if a public spectacle was made of him or not? Quite the opposite;

someone of his selfish nature and flamboyant tastes would likely relish the

thought of all the attention lavished on him. He already knows he is doomed to

die either way (whether he uses his own hand or not). At least with public death

his work would become famous and his person infamous. Many serial killers

enjoy the attention of the police and press, even when facing the death penalty.

It just seems highly unlikely that Hyde would commit suicide in a small dark room

where no one but Utterson would know the truth.

What, then, is the other possible reason for his suicide? As Hyde has

always been a part of Jekyll, even when he was not free, so is Jekyll still a part of

Hyde. The two are not completely separated, as many readers have so believed.

One does not function without the other; one cannot even die without the other.

It is Jekyll, then, and not Hyde, who ultimately destroyed himself. Jekyll, the one

who created the situation, also finally resolved it.

Neither Hyde nor Jekyll were ever in full control of the body. Jekyll began

changing without warning into Hyde, his primitive self. It serves to reason, then,

that sometimes Hyde might change into Jekyll, the more cultured and refined

self. If so, then the two were creating and molding themselves to be one person,

a wholly defined Self, accepting of both the inner Shadow (Hyde) and the

Persona, or the archetype of society’s expectations (Jekyll). Jekyll / Hyde was

undergoing the process of individuation, and had the entity not been forced to

suicide, it is quite possible a new and complete being would have emerged from

the experiment.

The Jekyll / Hyde conundrum is a strong critique of Victorian society.

Beyond being a simple horror story, Stevenson created a social commentary. In

the “modern” Victorian world, where science and reason were favored over base

superstitions, the Shadow had to emerge in a different way than ancient times. it

is fitting that Jekyll would use a scientific potion to unleash his alter ego, and not

something of a religious nature such as a chant or mystical experience. It is

science, the “savior” of mankind, that ultimately proves his undoing. “Jung saw

the real crisis of modern man as the danger of the leveling and loss of

individuality. He rightly emphasized that, while meaningful values and collective

religious symbols have lost much of their effectiveness, the need for a

suprapersonal meaning to life remains an inherent, archetypal factor in the

human psyche” (Jacoby 2).

In other words, a trapped Jekyll, forced into a society of respectability, is

freeing himself through scientific methods. Even though religion plays little part

in the novel (mostly through small allusions to a satanic appearance), Jekyll’s

base need for transformation remains as strong as his ancient ancestors.

Through the potion, he seeks to return to a primitive state. “Individual self-

reflection, return of the individual to the ground of human nature, to his own

deepest being with its individual and social destiny – here is the beginning of a

cure for that blindness which reigns at the present hour” (Jung, “Essays”).

It is interesting to see that when Jekyll spurns the role of Hyde after Sir

Danvers, he embraces an extremely moral lifestyle, including religion. “He came

out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more their

familiar guest and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for

charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion” (Stevenson 33). Note

that the author states Jekyll has now embraced religion, but did not do so before.

He is not simply mimicking his previous behaviors in an attempt to seem normal;

he is embracing an entirely new belief system. This fact bears examination.

A highly likely explanation for Jekyll’s newfound religion is that he has

already well advanced on his process of individuation. True, he is not yet a

whole being, but he is dramatically changing, even without the guise of Hyde.

One could argue that the transformation is not black and white; Hyde and Jekyll

are no longer two separate entities. They are now influencing each other’s

decision processes – Hyde has influenced Jekyll to become religious (out of a

desire for a more primitive expression, not out of moral standards) and Jekyll

influences Hyde to commit suicide.

It would make sense that Jekyll became unaware of his sporadic

transformations into Hyde, as well as Hyde not recognizing the influence of Dr.

Jekyll in his actions. “The process of individuation…is a totally spontaneous and

natural process within the psyche, on a par with the physical processes of growth

and ageing; it does not therefore exist as something that can be externally

stimulated, but as something hat is potentially present in all human beings,

although most of us are unaware of it” (Palmer 143). Jekyll made a legitimate

choice when he decided to unleash his Hyde side, but after the initial welcoming,

he became unable to control when he changed. Jung would argue that this was

because Jekyll had begun a process which was to happen naturally. Jekyll’s

subconscious wished to be merged to Hyde, or at least take the positive traits

from the character and create a whole Self.

So far we have discussed Jekyll as a character study; but what is

Stevenson trying to say about the larger society in general? Is he critical of

Victorian repression or does he see it as necessary to subdue the Shadow?

Excellent arguments could be made for both points. Obviously, Jekyll’s

experiment was detrimental, with nasty unintended consequences. Hyde wreaks

havoc in London, crushing a small girl and killing an elderly gentleman. It is

doubtful that Stevenson meant this to be a positive or envious experience. He

does not seem to be advocating this behavior or encouraging the rest of us to

lose our morals and propriety.

However, Stevenson does seem highly critical of the society that

encouraged Jekyll to resort to his experiment. It seems that Jekyll is offered a

choice – either live a respectable life like Utterson or become lose control as

Hyde. The author takes great pains to portray Utterson’s life as utterly boring

and unfulfilling, almost to a cartoonish extreme. Consider the very first sentence

in the novel. “Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that

was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;

backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow loveable”

(Stevenson 5). Even in physical stature he is the opposite of Hyde; while the

latter’s shortness represents his compressed evil nature, Utterson’s length shows

how society has stretched him to the limit. In an evolutionary point of view,

Utterson is far more “developed” than Hyde, which is not necessarily a positive

trait.

Beyond mere appearance, the nightly activities of both characters could

not be more different. While Utterson stays at home reading his dusty divinity

(perhaps a symbol of religion being replaced by science), Hyde is having a

gloriously wild time. As Jekyll explains, “When I would come back from these

excursions [as Hyde], I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious

depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and sent forth alone to

do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act

and thought centered on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any

degree of torture to another; relentless like a man of stone” (Stevenson 65).

Stevenson failed to mention any idea of a “middle ground,” somewhere

between the extremes of pathologically boring and chaotically evil. There is an

obvious critique of the society that would allow no such outlet for the inner

Shadow, no way of creatively and safely releasing the inner desires without

turning into a raving brute. The morals and behaviors expected of gentlemen

were absolute; no leniency was given. Within such rigid confines, it is difficult to

fully blame Jekyll for wanting anonymity and the freedom it imparts.

With this reading of Jekyll, it is clear that it is not only Dr. Jekyll’s fault for

the creation of Hyde; it is Victorian society’s responsibility. They created the

monster just as much as if they had raised the beaker to Jekyll’s’ lips. Their

oppressiveness allowed no dissent, no freedom, and no way of fully achieving

one’s Self. The only way to individuation was to break all the rules and grasp

and whatever freedom was available, no matter what the hideous consequences.

Poetry of Eliot

Published in 1922, T. S. Eliot’s epic poem The Waste Land is the epitome

of modernist literature. With its disjointed style, lack of linear narration, and

pessimistic outlook on early 20

century society, it is easy to grasp why this work

has held such a prominent place among those who rejected the values of

traditional realism. However, the poem also reaches deep into the past,

borrowing numerous themes and ideas from ancient mythology, literature, and

religion. Eliot takes these familiar references and modernizes them to address

the lonely emptiness of the post-World War western culture.

Eliot’s works were strongly influenced by Carl Jung’s ideas, and the

archetype of the Shadow is plainly mentioned in his poem, “The Hollow Men.”

However, it is The Waste Land that is Eliot’s gem, the focus of all his ideas and

creative abilities, and Jung’s ideas shine through in many of the sections. Eliot

himself was intensely interested in the blending of mythology, psychology, and

modernism. He specifically believed in the return to primitive beliefs as important

for a comprehensive understanding of art. “Eliot suggests first of all that new

forms of knowledge not only provide material that can be appropriated by art but

also make possible completely new artistic forms; the recently discovered

structures of the unconscious and of ‘primitive’ societies become models for the

creation of a new artistic order” (Spurr 266).

Before we can look at the poem as a Jungian study, we must understand

it contextually. And to properly understand The Waste Land, it is necessary to

look at the structure of the poem. Upon first reading, it seems a jumble of ideas,

historical quotes, and foreign phrases thrown together into a nonsensical

hodgepodge. However, there is a basic structure and theme moving throughout.

“The structural order envisaged through the spectator – unifier function, far from

being vague, has a visible logic, and it is at least as cogent as most innovations

of modern art” (Bloom 99). The poem begins with “The Burial of the Dead”,

which sets a sorrowful and despairing mood. “The Game of Chess” explores the

universality of modernism, how it applies to both the wealthy (Cleopatra) and the

poor (the Cockney women). “The Fire Sermon” introduces the main character,

Tiresias (he is in the apex of the poem, in what is arguably the most important

section, as if on a mountain). “Death by Water” continues the idea that Madame

Sosostris predicted, and “What the Thunder Said” brings the reader full circle,

with a religious ending grounded in the past.

The Waste Land opens with a quote from The Satyricon, by Petronius.

"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi

in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σιβυλλα

τι θελεις; respondebat illa: αποθανειν θελω."

Young boys ask the Sibyl, who has shriveled to the size of a cricket and is now

living in a cage (or jar), what she wants. She responds, “I want to die.” The Sibyl

was a prophetess of Greek and Roman mythology (and also early Christian

beliefs, as evidenced in the Requiem masses). It is fitting that Eliot should open

his work with this quote, as prophecy plays a vital part throughout The Waste

Land. It serves as a reminder of the little respect and heed that history has

generally paid its prophets. “‘I tell you the truth,’ [Jesus] continued, ‘no prophet is

accepted in his hometown’” (Luke 4:24, NIV).

Eliot emphasizes the past and how it relates to current day affairs. Jung

would highly approve of his referencing the prophets of old, since archetypes are

universal and have always existed in our collective unconscious. The idea

behind the Sibyl is someone rejecting a god, trying to achieve eternal life on her

own merit. This concept is referenced in numerous fairy tales and legends in

cultures throughout the world. Eliot was a strong advocate of primitivism, the

return to our ancestral roots, and the stories and beliefs that have defined us as

human. “Eliot saw primitive consciousness not only as belonging to exotic

peoples but as a latent power within contemporary life. As if anticipating Levy-

Bruhl, Eliot’s early poems often struggle to contain a barely controlled atavism

that threatens to shatter the fragile veneer of civilization” (Spurr 271). Obviously,

his inclusion of mythology herein helps to cement the idea of the collective

unconscious, and helps prepare a firm foundation for a Jungian study of his work.

Compare Eliot’s belief in primitivism with what Jung says about its importance in

creating a whole Self: “Self-reflection, or – what comes to the same thing – the

urge to individuation, gathers together what is scattered and multifarious and

exalts it to the original of the One, the Primordial Man. In this way our existence

as separate beings, our former ego nature, is abolished, the circle of

consciousness is widened, and…the sources of conflict are dried up” (Jung,

“Transformation”).

“April is the cruelest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing /

Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain” (Eliot 29). The first lines

of The Waste Land set the tone for the rest of the poem. As April and the arrival

of flowers are usually considered pleasant changes after the harsh chill of winter,

Eliot surprises and unnerves readers by introducing them as evil entities and

referring to winter as warm and forgetful. This reversal demonstrates the break

in tradition (especially deep-rooted tradition from ancient times) that personifies

modernism. Especially fitting is the phrase “mixing memory and desire.” The

desire, or Shadow, is fusing with memory, or tradition, to create a new

perspective for a new modernity.

It is appropriate that The Waste Land begins in April and not in spring in

general; Eliot is drawing a comparison between his poem and Chaucer’s The

Canterbury Tales, a journey of spiritual and cultural discovery that begins in April

(with “sweet showers”). “Though Eliot first intended a now-excised Boston night-

town scene for his opener, the poem as published fortuitously contrasts with the

beginning of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, thus making English poetry new by

turning the original celebration of fertility into an ode to dejection” (Bloom 113).

April in Victorian culture was often portrayed in a positive light, with Easter

services and new beginnings. In Eliot’s work, however, April is bleak and

miserable, since a new birth is often a painful, insecure process. Like an insect

shedding its exoskeleton, the Victorian values of the late 19

century are

painfully torn down to make way for a more modern mindset – a mindset that

would include individuation with oneself and a merging with one’s Shadow.

Foretelling the future with her pack of Tarot cards, Madame Sosostris is

an amalgamation of the Greek prophet Tiresias (discussed at greater length later

in the poem) and the oracle of Delphi. The cards she draws include the Wheel of

Fortune, representing constant change or turnover, the Three of Staves, meaning

commerce or trade, and The Hanged Man, or sacrifice (often seen either as

Jesus dying for the sins of the world, St. Peter being martyred for his beliefs, or

the Norse god Odin sacrificing himself for the sake of knowledge). “There is no

blank card in the Tarot; perhaps the clairvoyant does not know her trade as well

as she should” (Bloom 73).

Perhaps instead the true picture on the card is

hidden from her limited vision. Or perhaps Eliot is suggesting a tabula rasa, or

blank slate, that is the person’s true self. This self is not yet formed; the person

is not a complete unit. The other cards represent the way to completing the Self.

First, as the Wheel of Fortune indicates, there must be a change, an

acknowledgement of the individual’s true identity and a willingness to break with

traditional mores and social conventions (represented by the Three of Staves).

There must be personal sacrifice, as shown by the Hanged Man. It is a death of

the old self and a rebirth of the new, a journey into one’s Shadow and the

creation of a new individual. It is worthy to note that Eliot can be talking about

both the individual and society as a whole in these passages. It could be the

person who needs to change or the entire culture that must die to itself and its

created structures, to journey into the unknown and create a new, as of now

unforeseen, future.

Her most vital card, “The drowned Phoenician Sailor is a type of the

fertility god whose image was thrown into the sea annually as a symbol of the

death of summer” (Knoll 63). Taken with the others, these cards foretell a world

that is shifting from the ancient belief in deities towards one rooted in business

and monetary dealings. There is a still a cycle of birth and rebirth in the world;

nothing is static, and as Heraclitus believed, everything is in a constant state of

flux. Like in Jekyll, where Utterson’s dusty beliefs were being replaced by

scientific thought, the modern world is forgetting the gods of old for the

constructed society of present day. This trend is not positive; neither is it

psychologically beneficial to humans, who, Jung determined, are creatures that

need some sort of deity, archetypes, or unifying motifs. One does not simply

replace the foundations of humanity without suffering the consequences, which in

Jung’s beliefs were both neuroses and psychoses.

Madame Sosostris is yet another Jungian archetype – the Senex,

commonly referred to today as the Wise Old Man (Woman). The Senex, like the

Shadow, is a part of our unconscious and represents rigidity and conformity.

Like the Shadow, it is neither positive nor negative, comprising traits that can be

read as both. Being a seer, a distinctly traditional role, Sosostris embraces the

conservative values of the Senex. However, because of her willingness to stoop

to basic fortune-telling, she has been corrupted. Modernity has robbed her of her

traditional role, just as Victorian society has robbed the Shadow of its proper

place in individuation.

From lines 60 – 76, Eliot describes a modern crowd in London, comparing

it to a scene in another epic poem, Dante’s Inferno. “A crowd flowed over

London Bridge, so many, / I had not thought death had undone so many” (Eliot

31). Dante’s throng of lost souls in Canto III are ones who never rebelled directly

against God, but who have never specifically chosen Him either. They are the

“hollow men,” to quote another Eliot poem, lacking all conviction.

Again, Eliot uses ancient writings (Dante) to highlight a modern

phenomenon, the lack of definitive morals and thoughts in the early 20

century.

Without a certain belief structure, or some firm grounding, the crowd is lost and

aimless. “Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, / And each man fixed his

eyes before his feet” (Eliot 31). Again we see how the break with the ancient

beliefs has destroyed society. Without the archetypes and religious values,

people have become lost and aimless. The suppression and rejection of all the

core archetypes, including the Shadow, has reduced mankind to a neurotic

species, vacant and distant, without purpose or meaning.

The narrator soon meets an old friend named Stetson and inquires if the

corpse he planted in his garden has begun to sprout yet. There are at least two

distinct interpretations of this line, the first being a nod to William Blake’s “The

Poison Tree,” in which a long-standing grudge and daily evil intentions eventually

destroy an individual. The second, and more likely, interpretation is a direct

correlation to the poem’s opening lines. Breeding lilacs out of a dead land and

vegetation from a corpse both entail life arising from death.

Once again, this view is not necessarily new, but dates back to at least

ancient Egyptian mythology. The god Osiris was torn apart by Set and his pieces

scattered throughout the land; Osiris’ wife, Isis, showed her devotion to him by

reconstructing his body for burial, when he came back to life again. The

Egyptians viewed this death and resurrection of Osiris with the annual flooding of

the Nile, which fertilized the land. Eliot masterfully blends together ancient

mythology with modern London; traditional notions of the past may eventually

die, but they are resurrected in other forms the modern era. This is one of the

more optimistic ideas in The Waste Land.

From a Jungian perspective, we can read this life after death as the

process of individuation. We must die to ourselves, to what we have been taught

and what society has enforced upon us, and from this death and merger with the

Shadow, we are made into a new creation, a truly whole Self. Once again, Eliot’s

use of ancient mythology is directly connected to Jung’s espousal of primitivism,

returning to the basic state of nature in order to become fulfilled. As Spurr

remarks in his article, “the myths of Adonis, Attis, and Osiris borrowed from

Frazer join Europe and the Orient in a distant past and so have the value, for a

poet in the waning era of imperialism, of uniting Europe with its colonized other in

an idealized mythic identity” (Spurr 272). Compare The Waste Land with Dracula

in their views of colonialism and foreign mystique. While Stoker showed the

dangers of traveling to Eastern Europe and provoking forces beyond one’s

control, Eliot now embraces the idea, even deeming it necessary for progress

and fulfillment.

Throughout the poem are various references to rats, which ties in with

“The Hollow Men.” One of his most famous verses states, “I think we are in rats’

alley / Where the dead men lost their bones.” Later in the work, “A rat crept softly

through the vegetation / Dragging its slimy belly on the bank” (Eliot 36) and

“White bodies naked on the low damp ground / And bones cast in a little low dry

garret, / Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year” (Eliot 37). Rats have typically

held a negative connotation in European society, associated with the plague or

famine. In literature, they are often cast as villains, spies, or users. Through his

repeated use of rats, Eliot brings an ancient fear into the modern era, bringing

the reader a sense of disgust at the greed and selfishness of the human psyche.

While rats are not a specifically Jungian concept, it is important that Eliot

has tapped into a universal archetype, that of a disgusting and loathsome

creature, one that wallows in filth and will betray (“rat out”) his fellows. Jung

would have approved of this repetitive image, especially since it reaches into the

core of our humanity. “For these ideas a priori of the collective unconscious,

Jung employs the term ‘primordial image,’ borrowed from Jacob Burckhardt, or

‘archetype’ as used by St. Augustine. The peculiar gift of the poet, or of the artist

in any field, is his ability to make contact with the deeper level of the psyche and

to present in his work one of these primordial images. The particular image that

is chosen will depend on the unconscious need of the poet and of the society for

which he writes” (Foster 567).

On page 34 of The Waste Land, the female narrator laments “‘What shall I

do now? What shall I do?’ / ‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street / ‘With

my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow? / What shall we ever do?’”

According to Jung, this character has lost touch with her vital Self, the

complete wholeness that arrives after individuation. She is not whole because

she does not understand herself; she does not recognize or accept her darker

parts. “[T]he integration or humanization of the self is initiated from the

conscious side by our making ourselves aware of our selfish aims; we examine

our motives and try to form as complete and objective a picture as possible of our

own nature. It is an act of self recollection…and a coming to terms with oneself

with a view to achieving full consciousness” (Jung, “Transformation”).

Brief mention is made in “The Fire Sermon” to a character named

Sweeney. He appears quite frequently in Eliot’s works, including being a titular

figure in one of his plays, and is often understood to represent the modern

materialistic human male, consumed by selfish desires. “Sweeney actually is

Eliot’s characterization of the unrefined, sensual, secular man – a debased and a

debauched image of what humanity has ultimately been degraded to” (Tiwari 7).

As Eliot has been concerned with including Jungian archetypes in his poem, it is

only fitting that he include Sweeney as a personification of the Shadow. “In

Yeats’ terminology he represents the ‘anti-self’…while Jung would probably call

him the ‘shadow,’ the representative of those psychic potentialities that are not a

part of the conscious personality” (Foster 572).

Sadly, Sweeney is only mentioned in passing. The much more

outstanding character of The Waste Land is Tiresias, the blind prophet of Greek

mythology. He is hinted at through Madame Sosostris early in the first section of

the poem, but really comes into form on page 38, where he briefly narrates The

Fire Sermon. “(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all / Enacted on this same divan

or bed; / I who have sat by Thebes below the wall / And walked among the

lowest of the dead.)” Eliot was wise in his choice of prophet; as Tiresias had

been both a male and female, he is perfect as an all-encompassing voice of the

century. He is blind, which means he cannot see the world around him (a

perfect satire on modern society), but he has understanding and vision far

beyond the average person. In Eliot’s own notes, he states that Tiresias is the

very heart of the poem. This statement “indicates plainly enough what the poem

is: an effort to focus an inclusive human consciousness” (Knoll 27). This explains

why there are so many voices and narrators – Eliot is simply trying to create a

universal experience, a collective thought, a singular voice of the times. “Tiresias

defines a binary perspective that serves as the point of view of the poem. He is a

figure from the ideal order of myth; yet he is spying on the sordidly historical

typist and clerk. By saying that Tiresias is spying on all the characters, Eliot is

suggesting that the reader make an effort to perceive them in an equivalent way,

form both internal and external perspectives” (Brooker 53).

Part IV of The Waste Land, “Death by Water,” is extremely short, yet

poignant. It continues the prediction made by Madame Sosostris of “death by

water” and the drowned Phoenician Sailor. The dead Phlebas is providing

nourishment for the ocean. However, Eliot intended for drowning to symbolize

more than just physical death; it represents disorientation, confusion, and

uncertainty. “The soothing simplicity [of drowning] may mask a tortuous

confusion, an irresolvable complexity. At the same time, paradoxically, the

metaphor meaning confusion also means escape from confusion into clarity, from

complexity into the simplicity of death” (Brooker 170). Phlebas represents the

modern soul, overwhelmed by the fast, loose, and immoral world around it,

drowning forever in a sea of complexity and anxiety.

But water does not just represent death and destruction; it is a cleansing

and vital force of nature. Water is purity and rebirth, arriving before the existence

of mankind and bringing vitality to the land. Like the journey that Harker took to

Castle Dracula, the journey into the Shadow must involve a “dying” to one’s

present nature and a willingness to be “reborn” a more complete person. This

process is neither easy nor pleasant, and carries a certain amount of danger, but

in the end it is an advantageous decision. “What is desired is a mid-point, a ‘still

center,’ in which the conflicting values and attitudes can be reconciled. In Jung’s

terminology, this irrational point of reconciliation is called the Self” (Foster 579).

Water also plays a great role in Part V, “What the Thunder Said.” This

section begins with a long and rather repetitive entreaty for water among the

rocks. “He who was living is now dead / We who were living are now dying / With

a little patience” (Eliot 42). The need for water among a parched and dying land

symbolizes the need for revitalizing a dying culture as well as a need for rebirth.

Obviously, Eliot meant for water to play a major part throughout The Waste Land,

symbolizing both vitality and forgetfulness. Water has traditionally represented

new life; in the Bible, particularly the New Testament, believers symbolically shed

their old lives with baptism. “Following traditional theological exegesis, the

waters of The Waste Land are both the baptismal river and the blood of the

Eucharist. Echoing Dante, these waters mark the entrance to a regenerated

Earthly paradise at the end of purgatory” (Bloom 134).

Christian symbolism is once again evident when the narrator notices a

shrouded figure following his companion. “When I count, there are only you and I

together / But when I look ahead up the white road / There is always another one

walking beside you” (Eliot 43). This is most likely a reference to Christ on the

road to Emmaus, in which He appears before two of His disciples, who do not

recognize Him as they walk together. Interestingly, the Hebrew word for

Emmaus, hammat, means “warm spring,” in keeping with the water theme. By

filling The Waste Land with religious themes, Eliot melds the past with modern

times. He is hoping for a rebirth of the lost human core, the basic and most

fundamental aspects of our humanity, lost since the rise of civilization and the

suppression of desires and instincts.

Compare the holy shrouded figure mentioned above with the “hooded

hordes” that swarm in the next paragraph. If one believes Eliot’s notes that this

paragraph focused on the decline of eastern Europe, “The hordes represent,

then, the general waste land of the modern world with a special application to the

breakup of Eastern Europe, the region with which the fertility cults were

especially connected and in which today the traditional values are thoroughly

discredited” (Knoll 78). The swarm of hooded figures, like the traditional plague

of locusts, are a marked contrast to the figure of Christ. It is Dracula’s homeland,

Eastern Europe, that is now the “waste land.” Merely a few years earlier, in the

late 19

century, it was seen as a bastion of traditions and superstitions. Eastern

Europeans were generally a very religious and rigid people, with strict codes of

behavior and a firm belief system. In less than thirty years between the

publications of Dracula and “The Waste Land,” it has disintegrated and become

its antithesis, a largely disjointed and sporadic society, not bound by any

cohesive elements. Eliot laments this breakup, but it is more than a mere

geographical imbalance. At its core, it is an imbalance of humanity; with the fall

of the East comes a fall inside all Western Europeans and Americans who have

been rooted in that tradition. No longer do we have an “east” in which to return.

Modern society is keeping us from discovering our inner selves.

In keeping with the theme of belonging to religious and traditional roots,

the final pages contain the phrases “Datta Dayadhvam Damyata” which stem

from a Hindu tale found in the Upanishads. Together they mean “giving,

compassion, and self-control.” The last phrase of the poem, “Shantih shantih

shantih” can be translated as inner peace. Thus The Waste Land, which began

so melancholy, ends with a note of optimism. It must be noted, however, that

this optimism only comes when religion and tradition are paramount. In the

Unreal City of London, there is no such promise of tranquility or understanding.

In this way, Eliot connects the religions of old with the modern era, and teaches

that we must return, at least in some form, to the ancient ways. We would then

have come full circle, been baptized by both water and fire, and achieved the

“peace which passes understanding.”

Eliot’s The Waste Land is a perfect example of modernist literature, with

its brutal themes, disjointed narration, and satirical attacks on society. However,

it is more than just a textbook example; it also defies modernism by

demonstrating a need for a return to traditional ideas and religion, without which

humanity is perpetually drowned in a sea of uncertainty. In that sense, The

Waste Land is the epitome of modernist literature – it embraces the 20

century,

yet recognizes the importance of the past. It is able to step outside of itself, and

tenderly show the raw side of modern life while also critiquing it.

From a Jungian perspective, The Waste Land is an attack on modern

society and its attempts to squash our inner humanity. Eliot is making a

passionate plea to return to the primitive state of humankind that dwells inside of

us. The writing gets more disjointed as it continues to flow backwards, back into

the ebb of time, ending with an entreaty for peace in one of the earliest religions,

Hinduism.

Another of Eliot’s poems, “The Hollow Men,” deals directly with the

Shadow, even naming and describing it. He wrote the masterpiece in 1925 after

having suffered a nervous breakdown when his marriage fell apart. This is

significant because it was the time when he had to face his own unstable psyche

and was considered a low point in his life (personally, but most certainly not

artistically).

The poem begins with a link to Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. “Mistah Kurtz

– he dead.” Kurtz and his depravity were the main focus of Heart of Darkness.

The novel describes a man’s journey into the deep, unexplored part of Africa and

his encounter with a soulless ivory merchant. The entire process is a meeting

with the Shadow, represented by Kurtz, who, as he dies, finally sees himself and

the world for the darkness they inhabit. His final words, “The horror! The horror!”

speak to readers across generations. Once again we hear echoes of the

Victorian fear of foreignness and the primitive. But Kurtz’s exclamation is not

actually about the African people or their cultures. He is seeing himself as a part

of all the misery and suffering in the world – not just as a hapless victim, but as

one of the root causes. Kurtz is a man who gave himself up completely to the

Shadow, like Hyde, but did not retain any sense of his identity. There was no

Jekyll hiding underneath the surface, helping to rid the world of Hyde. There is

only Kurtz, completely under the Shadow, and completely destitute.

Eliot continues on to describe the world the Kurtz saw at the very end of

his life, a world full of hollow, stuffed men. They “lean together,” symbolizing the

urbanization of Britain in the late 19

century, when many people left their farms

and rural areas to migrate to highly populated cities. But by taking people out of

their more primitive natural environment and thrusting them into a society of

rules, decorum, and stifling order, you have in essence removed their humanity,

their core, and their very reason for existence. They become hollow men, with

“dried voices” that “whisper” because they are too afraid to assert themselves

and speak their desires aloud.

In verse 31, Eliot describes how we should disguise ourselves as

scarecrows, wearing “Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves / In a field” (Eliot

Hollow). This description forms a twofold purpose. First, it highlights the fact that

modern urban man is nothing more than an empty, hollow shell (interesting how

Eliot combines this critique with distinctly rural imagery). Second, it shows that

humankind has lost its identity and now must interact with the world through a

“disguise,” but this one involving two animals and a religious symbol (either the

cross of Christ or St. Andrew); the latter demonstrates how we use religion as a

tool or disguise, but we have taken away the basic, obvious message. Like

Utterson reading his dusty books on divinity, the cross is meaningless to the

modern world of unbelievers. “The Hollow Men is both a characterization and a

repudiation. Modern secular man performs his idiotic dance, his head filled with

straw, because he has rejected revelation for science, because he has ignored

the other world in order to try to make the most of this” (Waggoner 102).

In the third section, Eliot describes how the people are praying to broken

stone images. This coincides with the religious imagery described above. The

gods are broken and dead, worshipped only by empty, futile gestures. There is

no genuine life on either side. As the images are broken, so are the people

praying to them. They have not achieved individuation yet; they have no core

center, or Self. The Self is often portrayed as a circle, encompassing everything

that makes up an individual, with the Ego in the very center. Directly under the

surface of the Self is the collective unconscious. When that is frayed, the rest of

the Self shatters and crumbles. There is no longer a firm traditional foundation to

hold it together.

It is Part V of “The Hollow Men” that holds the greatest interest to us:

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception

And the creation

Between the emotion

And the response

Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is

Life is

For Thine is the

(Part V, “The Hollow Men,” T. S. Eliot)

There have been numerous theories put forth about the origin of these

lines, but the most likely theory is that they are a conglomeration of many

different sources. The quote is xsimilar to one in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.

“For Thine is the Kingdom” is a part of the Lord’s prayer, which once again

references Christian beliefs. This prayer, however, is not to God; it is an empty,

hollow shell, just like the humans speaking it. It is a phrase remembered from

the past but no longer with any meaning.

Notice how in the last few lines the prayer is broken. It is no longer a

coherent idea, and is written like someone trying to recite it who has forgotten it.

The last vestiges of the hollow words are echoed without sentiment, without

prayer, and without faith. Science has replaced religion as man’s god, and not

without serious consequences. “But our scientism, our worship of the factual

knowledge…is not the only reason we are hollow men. We are hollow men, futile

men, made more futile by the knowledge of our own futility, because the

behaviorist’s conception of man and the physicist’s conception of the world, both

of which we accept, leave no room for any other than hollow men.” (Waggoner

117)

The Shadow described here is an interactive barrier between thought and

action. It is not necessarily the creative force, since the ideas have already been

constructed. Neither is it the action itself, which comes afterwards. Instead, it is

the motivation for the action, the reason that people put their ideas into motion. It

is the drive that spurs us to move, to create, and to achieve.

Like The Waste Land, Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” is a poem designed to

mourn the loss of religious identity and primitive traditions in a modern world that

has largely forgotten them. Whatever relics are left, such as prayers or sayings,

are hollow and pointless. To return to vitality and potency, mankind must

embrace the past, with all its myths, legends, and archetypes. This is the only

way to unite with the Shadow aspects of ourselves and become a whole Self.

Conclusion

From reading the modernist literature described in this thesis, one can

surmise that the turn of the twentieth century was a time period of rapid change

and progression. Between the Industrial Revolution, the replacing of religion by

science, and the numerous wars that plagued the era, it is easy to see the why

the authors would tap into a deep fear. This was the fear of the shadow of

mankind’s true self, his or her Shadow, capable of great evils and so much

violence, yet a creative energy that sparked great marvels, ideas, movements,

and inventions.

Modernism was seeking to stifle the individual’s desires. The rise of

“civilized behavior” and appropriate codes of conduct meant that there was no

release for the inner self. While society has always dictated certain behaviors as

taboo or forbidden, the repression felt at the turn of the 20

century was

especially strong. This was of great concern to Carl Jung.

With Jung’s belief in the collective unconscious, the threat of losing one’s

Self was more than an individual problem; it deeply affected society. Likewise,

society’s failings were instrumental in every individual’s psyche. Therefore, the

suppression of the Shadow by Victorian society was a serious problem, as it

inhibited the growth of numerous individuals. With the suppression of one’s

darker self came a dangerous neurosis that could potentially turn psychotic. It

was not healthy to hold the feelings and desires inside; a lifelong quest for

individuation and oneness with the Self was the only way to relieve the mental

tension.

While most stories contain universal figures or archetypes one way or

another, these late Victorian authors (James, Stoker, and Stevenson) were

especially concerned with the Shadow. But they were not seeking ways to tame

or suppress it. Their stories were about facing the Shadow and interacting with

it. They wanted their readers to come to grips with a part of themselves that had

been severely suppressed by society.

With The Turn of the Screw, James shows us a young governess who has

never been allowed to discover herself. All her life she has been sheltered and

forced to conform to society. When she is finally alone for the first time, and

forced to deal with problematic situations without assistance, she encounters her

Shadow in the guise of the ghosts of Peter Quint and Miss Jessel. They stand at

reflective surfaces because they are her inner self, all the passions and desires

that she has so long repressed. The stronger she rejects them, the more they

appear and take control of her life.

Dracula is about the journey into the Shadow and the consequences of

Victorian society’s ignorance of it. Harker travels to Eastern Europe to meet

Count Dracula, just as we each must lose our inhibitions and discover our early

roots to achieve individuation. Dracula was able to victimize society because no

one believed in his existence or knew how to deal with him. Using modern

methods to combat him was useless, and resulted in the death of Lucy and the

mental imprisonment of Mina. Only by traveling back to the Count’s homeland,

thus journeying into the Shadow to face it, are they able to defeat Dracula and

achieve a oneness with themselves.

Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde looks at a man

torn apart (literally and figuratively) by his conflicting interests. On the one hand,

he wishes to remain a socially acceptable gentleman in the guise of Dr. Jekyll;

however, his darker half as Mr. Hyde is constantly pressuring him to be released.

In the end, it takes one to destroy the other, since they have not learned to

merge with each other as a Self. This story is a warning, not, as on the surface,

to any errant chemist who experiments on himself, but for any person who tries

to keep his Shadow suppressed, or who allows the Shadow to take full control.

One must keep a delicate balance, not allowing either side too much power.

The poetry of T. S. Eliot, especially The Waste Land and “The Hollow

Men,” tell the story of modern man and his downfall from primitivism to the

machine age. Once again, society keeps humanity in chains, binding us to its

whims and caprices, emptying us of our vitality and history. Without our primitive

selves, and this includes our archetypes, we become hollow and empty, with our

minds full of nothing of value. Eliot’s works are a warning to us to hang on to our

past, to reconcile with our Shadow, and to become whole Selves, before it is too

late.

All of these works carry a deep warning - a warning not to get lost within

society, not to become merely a pawn of the modern world. It is vital to keep our

humanity, and as Jung would argue, to become one with our Self. We must keep

our traditions alive, our religions relevant, and our past unified. The Shadow is

not something to be feared; it is necessary to embrace that aspect of ourselves.

Of course, Carl Jung put it best, “We carry our past with us, to wit, the primitive

and inferior man with his desires and emotions, and it is only with an enormous

effort that we can detach ourselves from this burden. If it comes to a neurosis,

we invariably have to deal with a considerably intensified shadow. And if such a

person wants to be cured it is necessary to find a way in which his conscious

personality and his shadow can live together” (Jung, “Psychology” 12).

Bibliography

Bloom, Harold, ed. Modern Critical Interpretations: The Waste Land. New York:

Chelsea House Publishers, 1986.

Bontly, Thomas J. “Henry James’s ‘General Vision of Evil’ in The Turn of the

Screw”. Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900. Vol. 9, No. 4. 721-735.

Rice University, 1969.

Brooker, Jewel Spears, and Joseph Bentley. Reading The Waste Land. Amherst:

The University of Massachusetts Press, 1990.

Charet, F. X. Spiritualism and the Foundations of C. G. Jung’s Psychology.

Suny Press, 1993.

Chinitz, David. “T. S. Eliot and the Cultural Divide”. PMLA. Vol. 110, No. 2. 236-

247. Modern Language Association, 1995.

Craft, Christopher. “Gender and Inversion in Bram Stoker’s Dracula”.

Representations. No. 8. 107-133. University of California Press, 1984.

Cranfill, Thomas M. and Robert L. Clark, Jr. “James’s Revisions of The Turn of

the Screw”. Nineteenth-Century Fiction. Vol.18, No.4. 394-398.

University of California Press, 1965.

Duhigg, Charles. The Power of Habit. New York: Random House

Elbarbary, Samir. “Heart of Darkness and Late-Victorian Fascination with

the Primitive and the Double”. Twentieth Century Literature.

Vol. 39, No. 1. 113-128. Hofstra University, 1993.

Eliot, T. S. The Waste Land and Other Poems. New York: Harcourt, Brace and

Company, 1958.

Ferguson, Christine. “Nonstandard Language and the Cultural Stakes of

Stoker’s ‘Dracula’”. ELH. Vol. 71, No. 1. 229-249.

John Hopkins University Press, 2004.

Foster, Genevieve W. “The Archetypal Imagery of T. S. Eliot”

PMLA. Vol. 60, No. 2. 567-585. Modern Language Association, 1945.

Halttunen, Karen. "Through the Cracked and Fragmented Self". American

Quarterly. 40.4: 472-490. John Hopkins University Press.

Jacoby, Mario. Individuation and Narcissism. Psychology Press, 1991.

James, Henry. The Turn of the Screw, The Aspen Papers and Two Stories.

New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, 2003.

Jung, Carl. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Volume 9.

Ed. R. Hull. Princeton University Press, 1981.

Jung, Carl. Psychology and Religion: West and East. Ed. Sir Herbert Read and

Gerhard Adler. Princeton University Press,1952.

Jung, Carl. Red Book. Norton & Co., 2009.

Jung, Carl. “Transformation Symbolism in the Mass”.

The Collected Works of C. G. Jung. Vol. 11. Princeton University Press.

Jung, Carl. Two Essays on Analytical Psychology. Trans. R. F. C. Hull.

Princeton University Press, 1972.

Knoll, Robert E., ed. Storm Over The Waste Land. Scott, Foresman and

Company, 1964.

Konstantinos. Vampires: the occult truth. Llewellyn Worldwide, 1996.

Lachman, Gary. Jung the Mystic. Penguin, 2012.

Lamont, Peter. “Spiritualism and a Mid-Victorian Crisis of Evidence”.

The Historical Journal. Vol. 47, No. 4. 897-920. Cambridge University

Press, 2004.

May, Leila. “Foul Things of the Night: Dread in the Victorian Body”.

The Modern Language Review. Vol. 93, No. 1. 16-22.

Modern Humanities Research Association, 1998.

Moore, Pete. E=Mc2: The Great Ideas That Shaped Our World. Friedman/Fairfax

Publishing, 2002.

Palmer, Michael F. Freud and Jung on Religion. Psychology Press, 1997.

Roellinger, Francis X. “Psychical Research and ‘The Turn of the Screw’”.

American Literature. Vol. 20, No. 3. 401-412. Duke University Press,

1948.

Schirmacher, Wolfgang and Sven Nebelung, ed. German Essays on Psychology.

Continuum International Publishing Group, 2001.

Seligman, C. G. “Note on Dreams”. Man. Vol. 23. 186-188.

Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 1923.

Spurr, David. “Myths of Anthropology: Eliot, Joyce, Levy-Bruhl”.

PMLA. Vol. 109, No. 2. 266-280. Modern Language Association, 1994.

Stevenson, Robert Louis. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

New York, Signet Classics, 1978.

Stoker, Bram. Dracula. New York: Signet Classics, 1978.

Tiwari, Subha and Maneesha Tiwari. The Plays of T. S. Eliot.

Atlantic Publishers & Dist, 2007.

Tuvenson, Ernest. “The Turn of the Screw: A Palimpsest”.

Waggoner, Hyatt Howe. “T. S. Eliot and the Hollow Men”. American Literature.

Vol. 15, No. 2. 101-126. Duke University Press, 1943.