Introverted Thinking
Introverted Feeling
Introverted Sensation
Introverted Intuition
As I have already explained in section 1 of the present chapter, the introverted is distinguished from the extraverted type by the fact that, unlike the latter, who is prevailingly orientated by the object and objective data, he is governed by subjective factors. In the section alluded to I mentioned, inter alia, that the introvert interposes a subjective view between the perception of the object and his own action, which prevents the action from assuming a character that corresponds with the objective situation. Naturally, this is a special case, mentioned by way of example, and merely intended to serve as a simple illustration. But now we must go in quest of more general formulations.
Introverted consciousness doubtless views the external conditions, but it selects the subjective determinants as the decisive ones. The type is guided, therefore, by that factor of perception and cognition which represents the receiving subjective disposition to the sense stimulus. Two persons, for example, see the same object, but they never see it in such a way as to receive two identically similar images of it. Quite apart from the differences in the personal equation and mere organic acuteness, there often exists a radical difference, both in kind and degree, in the psychic assimilation of the perceived image. Whereas the extraverted type refers preeminently to that which reaches him from the object, the introvert principally relies upon that which the outer impression constellates [sic] in the subject. In an individual case of apperception, the difference may, of course, be very delicate, but in the total psychological economy it is extremely noticeable, especially in the form of a reservation of the ego. Although it is anticipating somewhat, I consider that point of view which inclines, with Weininger, to describe this attitude as philautic, or with other writers, as autoerotic, egocentric, subjective, or egoistic, to be both misleading in principle and definitely depreciatory. It corresponds with the normal bias of the extraverted attitude against the nature of the introvert. We must not forget—although extraverted opinion is only too prone to do so—that all perception and cognition is not purely objective: it is also subjectively conditioned. The world exists not merely in itself, but also as it appears to me. Indeed, at bottom, we have absolutely no criterion that could help us to form a judgment of a world whose nature was unassimilable by the subject. If we were to ignore the subjective factor, it would mean a complete denial of the great doubt as to the possibility of absolute cognition. And this would mean a rechute into that stale and hollow positivism which disfigured the beginning of our epoch—an attitude of intellectual arrogance that is invariably accompanied by a crudeness of feeling, and an essential violation of life, as stupid as it is presumptuous. Through an overvaluation of the objective powers of cognition, we repress the importance of the subjective factor, which simply means the denial of the subject. But what is the subject? The subject is man—we are the subject. Only a sick mind could forget that cognition must have a subject, for there exists no knowledge and, therefore, for us, no world where ‘I know’ has not been said, although with this statement one has already expressed the subjective limitation of all knowledge.
The same holds good for all the psychic functions: they have a subject which is just as indispensable as the object. It is characteristic of our present extraverted valuation that the word ‘subjective’ occasionally rings almost like a reproach or blemish; but in every case the epithet ‘merely subjective’ means a dangerous weapon of offence, destined for that daring head, that is not unceasingly convinced of the unconditioned superiority of the object. We must, therefore, be quite clear as to what meaning the term ‘subjective’ carries in this investigation. As the subjective factor, then, I understand that psychological action or reaction which, when merged with the effect of the object, makes a new psychic fact. Now, in so far as the subjective factor, since oldest times and among all peoples, remains in a very large measure identical with itself—since elementary perceptions and cognitions are almost universally the same—it is a reality that is just as firmly established as the outer object. If this were not so, any sort of permanent and essentially changeless reality would be altogether inconceivable, and any understanding with posterity would be a matter of impossibility. Thus far, therefore, the subjective factor is something that is just as much a fact as the extent of the sea and the radius of the earth. Thus far, also, the subjective factor claims the whole value of a world-determining power which can never, under any circumstances, be excluded from our calculations. It is the other world-law, and the man who is based upon it has a foundation just as secure, permanent, and valid, as the man who relies upon the object But, just as the object and objective data remain by no means always the same, inasmuch as they are both perishable and subject to chance, the subjective factor is similarly liable to variability and individual hazard. Hence its value is also merely relative. The excessive development of the introverted standpoint in consciousness, for instance, does not lead to a better or sounder application of the subjective factor, but to an artificial subjectification of consciousness, which can hardly escape the reproach ‘merely subjective’. For, as a countertendency to this morbid subjectification, there ensues a desubjectification of consciousness in the form of an exaggerated extraverted attitude which richly deserves Weininger’s description “misautic”. Inasmuch as the introverted attitude is based upon a universally present, extremely real, and absolutely indispensable condition of psychological adaptation, such expressions as ‘philautic’, ‘egocentric’, and the like are both objectionable and out of place, since they foster the prejudice that it is invariably a question of the beloved ego. Nothing could be more absurd than such an assumption. Yet one is continually meeting it when examining the judgments of the extravert upon the introvert. Not, of course, that I wish to ascribe such an error to individual extraverts; it is rather the present generally accepted extraverted view which is by no means restricted to the extraverted type; for it finds just as many representatives in the ranks of the other type, albeit very much against its own interest. The reproach of being untrue to his own kind is justly levelled at the latter, whereas, this, at least, can never be charged against the former.
The introverted attitude is normally governed by the psychological structure, theoretically determined by heredity, but which to the subject is an ever present subjective factor. This must not be assumed, however, to be simply identical with the subject’s ego, an assumption that is certainly implied in the above mentioned designations of Weininger; it is rather the psychological structure of the subject that precedes any development of the ego. The really fundamental subject, the Self, is far more comprehensive than the ego, because the former also embraces the unconscious, while the latter is essentially the focal point of consciousness. Were the ego identical with the Self, it would be unthinkable that we should be able to appear in dreams in entirely different forms and with entirely different meanings. But it is a characteristic peculiarity of the introvert, which, moreover, is as much in keeping with his own inclination as with the general bias, that he tends to confuse his ego with the Self, and to exalt his ego to the position of subject of the psychological process, thus effecting that morbid subjectification of consciousness, mentioned above, which so alienates him from the object.
The psychological structure is the same. Semon has termed it ‘mneme’,[2] whereas I call it the ‘collective unconscious’. The individual Self is a portion, or excerpt, or representative, of something universally present in all living creatures, and, therefore, a correspondingly graduated kind of psychological process, which is born anew in every creature. Since earliest times, the inborn manner of acting has been called instinct, and for this manner of psychic apprehension of the object I have proposed the term archetype. I may assume that what is understood by instinct is familiar to everyone. It is another matter with the archetype. This term embraces the same idea as is contained in ‘primordial image’ (an expression borrowed from Jakob Burckhardt), and as such I have described it in Chapter xi of this book. I must here refer the reader to that chapter, in particular to the definition of ‘image’.
The archetype is a symbolical formula, which always begins to function whenever there are no conscious ideas present, or when such as are present are impossible upon intrinsic or extrinsic grounds. The contents of the collective unconscious are represented in consciousness in the form of pronounced tendencies, or definite ways of looking at things. They are generally regarded by the individual as being determined by the object—incorrectly, at bottom—since they have their source in the unconscious structure of the psyche, and are only released by the operation of the object. These subjective tendencies and ideas are stronger than the objective influence; because their psychic value is higher, they are superimposed upon all impressions. Thus, just as it seems incomprehensible to the introvert that the object should always be decisive, it remains just as enigmatic to the extravert how a subjective standpoint can be superior to the objective situation. He reaches the unavoidable conclusion that the introvert is either a conceited egoist or a fantastic doctrinaire. Recently he seems to have reached the conclusion that the introvert is constantly influenced by an unconscious power-complex. The introvert unquestionably exposes himself to this prejudice; for it cannot be denied that his definite and highly generalized mode of expression, which apparently excludes every other view from the outset, lends a certain countenance to this extraverted opinion. Furthermore, the very decisiveness and inflexibility of the subjective judgment, which is superordinated to all objective data, is alone sufficient to create the impression of a strong egocentricity. The introvert usually lacks the right argument in presence of this prejudice; for he is just as unaware of the unconscious, though thoroughly sound presuppositions of his subjective judgment, as he is of his subjective perceptions. In harmony with the style of the times, he looks without, instead of behind his own consciousness for the answer. Should he become neurotic, it is the sign of a more or less complete unconscious identity of the ego with the Self, whereupon the importance of the Self is reduced to nil, while the ego becomes inflated beyond reason. The undeniable, world-determining power of the subjective factor then becomes concentrated in the ego, developing an immoderate power claim and a downright foolish egocentricity. Every psychology which reduces the nature of man to unconscious power instinct springs from this foundation. For example, Nietzsche’s many faults in taste owe their existence to this subjectification of consciousness.
The superior position of the subjective factor in consciousness involves an inferiority of the objective factor. The object is not given that importance which should really belong to it. Just as it plays too great a role in the extraverted attitude, it has too little to say in the introverted. To the extent that the introvert’s consciousness is subjectified, thus bestowing undue importance upon the ego, the object is placed in a position which in time becomes quite untenable. The object is a factor of undeniable power, while the ego is something very restricted and transitory. It would be a very different matter if the Self opposed the object. Self and world are commensurable factors; hence a normal introverted attitude is just as valid, and has as good a right to existence, as a normal extraverted attitude. But, if the ego has usurped the claims of the subject, a compensation naturally develops under the guise of an unconscious reinforcement of the influence of the object. Such a change eventually commands attention, for often, in spite of a positively convulsive attempt to ensure the superiority of the ego, the object and objective data develop an overwhelming influence, which is all the more invincible because it seizes upon the individual unawares, thus effecting an irresistible invasion of consciousness. As a result of the ego’s defective relation to the object—for a will to command is not adaptation—a compensatory relation to the object develops in the unconscious, which makes itself felt in consciousness as an unconditional and irrepressible tie to the object. The more the ego seeks to secure every possible liberty, independence, superiority, and freedom from obligations, the deeper does it fall into the slavery of objective facts. The subject’s freedom of mind is chained to an ignominious financial dependence, his unconcernedness of action suffers now and again, a distressing collapse in the face of public opinion, his moral superiority gets swamped in inferior relationships, and his desire to dominate ends in a pitiful craving to be loved. The chief concern of the unconscious in such a case is the relation to the object, and it affects this in a way that is calculated to bring both the power illusion and the superiority phantasy to utter ruin. The object assumes terrifying dimensions, in spite of conscious depreciation. Detachment from, and command of, the object are, in consequence, pursued by the ego still more violently. Finally, the ego surrounds itself by a regular system of safeguards (Adler has ably depicted these) which shall at least preserve the illusion of superiority. But, therewith, the introvert severs himself completely from the object, and either squanders his energy in defensive measures or makes fruitless attempts to impose his power upon the object and successfully assert himself. But these efforts are constantly being frustrated by the overwhelming impressions he receives from the object. It continually imposes itself upon him against his will; it provokes in him the most disagreeable and obstinate affects, persecuting him at every step. An immense, inner struggle is constantly required of him, in order to ‘keep going.’ Hence Psychoasthenia is his typical form of neurosis, a malady which is characterized on the one hand by an extreme sensitiveness, and on the other by a great liability to exhaustion and chronic fatigue.
An analysis of the personal unconscious yields an abundance of power phantasies coupled with fear of the dangerously animated objects, to which, as a matter of fact, the introvert easily falls a victim. For a peculiar cowardliness develops from this fear of the object; he shrinks from making either himself or his opinion effective, always dreading an intensified influence on the part of the object. He is terrified of impressive affects in others, and is hardly ever free from the dread of falling under hostile influence. For objects possess terrifying and powerful qualities for him—qualities which he cannot consciously discern in them, but which, through his unconscious perception, he cannot choose but believe in. Since his conscious relation to the object is relatively repressed, its exit is by way of the unconscious, where it becomes loaded with the qualities of the unconscious. These qualities are primarily infantile and archaic. His relation to the object, therefore, becomes correspondingly primitive, taking on all those peculiarities which characterize the primitive objectrelationship. Now it seems as though objects possessed magical powers. Strange, new objects excite fear and distrust, as though concealing unknown dangers; objects long rooted and blessed by tradition are attached to his soul as by invisible threads; every change has a disturbing, if not actually dangerous aspect, since its apparent implication is a magical animation of the object. A lonely island where only what is permitted to move moves, becomes an ideal. Auch Einer, the novel by F. Th. Vischer, gives a rich insight into this side of the introvert’s psychology, and at the same time shows the underlying symbolism of the collective unconscious, which in this description of types I am leaving on one side, since it is a universal phenomenon with no especial connection with types.
Rejection of external influence
Timid, cautious
Cold
unfriendly
Critical
Pessimistic
Persistent
Apathetic
Haughty
Miserly
Rigid mimcry
Poor Mixer
Individualism
Let us begin by looking at the significance of certain external phenomena for the individual with the introverted attitude. It is easy to see that the listed characteristics 1-4 and 11-12. which manifest themselves externally, may be attributed to the person’s great sensitivity. He is "thin-skinned” and so the impressions that come at him from all sides strike deep and affect him greatly. He seeks to protect himself through characteristics 1-4 and 11-12. and in a way they help maintain his self-preservation.
The psychiatrist Otto Gross has created a very graphic model for this situation, which of course we shall not lake literally. He talks of a "cerebral secondary function,” by which he simply means the restitution phase of a stimulated nerve cell. The absorption of the stimulus would be the primary function. Only when the "secondary function" subsides is the cell once again in a position to absorb a new stimulus, so that newly occurring stimuli cannot even be perceived during the secondary function. Gross postulates that some people are bom with a prolonged secondary function. This would be a very apt description of the type described by Jung as introverted, and we could depict It in graphic terms: his primary function is strong, even violent, as there is a lot of tension (here which usually betrays itself, for example, in his rigid mimicry. To recover from this he consequently needs a longer restitution phase, described by Gross as a “prolonged secondary phase.” Of course, several new stimuli fall into this phase, but during this extension they have no effect.
This gives rise to a surfeit of stimuli, which in turn leads to a flight from stimuli. For (he same reason, the introverted type tends to miss the right opportunities and suffer from esprit d'escalier. This is connected with the fact that this attitude type is vindictive, which is also why the introvert is afraid of his own emotions and is envious and jealous of the extroverted type, who seems to have a much easier time of it. In other words, he secretly yearns for extroversion. Another distinguishing feature is a certain slowness in forming his own opinion, even though there is actually a strong need for this on his part.
On the other hand, it is precisely for the above reasons that the introverted type has considerable awareness of his motives and is very self-critical, which often gives rise to the so-called inferiority complexes. The introvert is generally full of himself and this is why he comes across as reserved. The overvaluation of the object, and the fascination with it, force him to defend himself against it. He acts basically according to the “subjective factor” (cf. pp. 71-72 of Volume 3), and this makes his consciousness a subjective one.
The introvert will project his opposite type onto an extrovert. He will judge him as if he had done all those things that he rejects in himself out of self-criticism, and moreover will attribute bad motives to him. Naively enough, the introvert regards extroversion in the extrovert as simply negative. It can happen to the introvert that he, loo. Occasionally produces extroverted characteristics (i.c. that his unconscious breaks through once in a while), and when that happens they turn out to be inferior and often rather ridiculous. In such moments the introvert tends to overestimate the object uncritically and to become fascinated and carried away by it. This leads to his involvement with all sorts of unworthy people and questionable things. His behavior becomes very unusual, he misplaces his trust and exposes himself. The inner center emerges surprisingly from behind the tough exterior, and this center is determinable to the point of weakness. He lapses into sentimental relationships, places impossible expectations on the object and can fall jealously in love. This means, of course, that he has high ideals of friendship and love and is correspondingly disappointed.
This temporary reversal of type, in which the opposite type emerges as inferior, can be seen clearly when the introvert is under the influence of alcohol, completely forgets himself, and would happily launch into the triumphant choms at the end of Beethoven's Ninth. In a Swiss "Weltspiegel" dating back to 1624 we can read that “many people don't have a good word for anyone unless they are drunk. an observation which is well and truly confirmed by the introversion that predominates in Switzerland.
Another group of people are guided, m so far as conscious motives are concerned, by entirely different factors; they are primarily conscious of their own subjective reactions to events. They are peculiarly sensitive to these—^to what they feel, how they think, about any situation. Where these reactions conflict, they seek to weld them into some sort of harmony of attitude and opinion. In their adjustment to life they thus take as starting-point their own needs and the demands of their own being. They dso consult these when in difficulty, and for this purpose they withdraw into themselves. For this reason Jung called them inwardly directed, or introverted types.
With introverts, it is exactly the opposite. For them the introverted state is the safest and most agreeable. Alone with himself, the introvert knows exactly what he wants. In contact with others, he loses his sense of security. He finds it an overwhelmingly difficult task to assert himself and to express himself properly. When alone, he feels himself at ease; and when forced into contact with the external world, he has no regrets when the contact is broken and he may withdraw into himself once more. Since an individual of this type is more intensively in touch with himself than with others, he will know his own intentions relatively better than those of other people, and the activities of his own ego will be more differentiated in his mind than those of the external world.
The distinguishing feature of introversion, as opposed to extraversion, is that whereas the latter relates primarily to the object and data originating in the outside world, introversion finds its orientation in inner, personal factors.
A person of this type might say: "I know I could give my father the greatest pleasure if I did so and so, but I don't happen to think that way." Or: "I see that the weather has turned out bad, but in spite of it I shall carry out my plan." This type does not travel for pleasure but to execute a preconceived idea. . . . At every step the sanction of the subject must be obtained, and without it nothing can be undertaken or carried out. Such people would have replied to St. Augustine [see above, p. 39]: "I would believe the Gospel if the authority of the Catholic Church did not compel it." Always he has to prove that everything he does rests on his own decisions and convictions, and never because he is influenced by anyone, or desires to please or conciliate some person or opinion.
Naturally, an introverted consciousness can be well aware of external conditions, but subjective determinants are decisive as the motivating force. While the extravert responds to what comes to the subject from the object (outer reality), the introvert relates mainly to the impressions aroused by the object in the subject (inner reality).
Jung is characteristically blunt in describing the traits of this type:
The introvert is not forthcoming, he is as though in continual retreat before the object. He holds aloof from external happenings, does not join in, has a distinct dislike of society as soon as he finds himself among too many people. In a large gathering he feels lonely and lost. The more crowded it is, the greater becomes his resistance. He is not in the least "with it," and has no love of enthusiastic get-togethers. He is not a good mixer. What he does, he does in his own way, barricading himself against influences from outside. . . . He is easily mistrustful, self-willed, often suffers from inferiority feelings and for this reason is also envious. He confronts the world with an elaborate defensive system compounded of scrupulosity, pedantry, fru-gality, cautiousness, painful conscientiousness, stiff-lipped rectitude, politeness, and open-eyed distrust. . . . Under normal conditions he is pessimistic and worried, because the world and human beings are not in the least good but crush him. . . . His own world is a safe harbour, a carefully tended and walled-in garden, closed to the public and hidden from prying eyes. His own company is the best.
No wonder the introverted attitude is often seen as autoerotic, egocentric, egotistical, even pathological. But in Jung's opinion, this simply reflects the normal bias of the extraverted attitude, which is by definition convinced of the superiority of the object.
We must not forget—although the extravert is only too prone to do so—that perception and cognition are not purely objective, but are also subjectively conditioned. The world exists not merely in itself, but also as it appears to me. . . . By overvaluing our capacity for objective cognition we repress the importance of the subjective factor.
By the "subjective factor," Jung understands "that psychological action or reaction which merges with the effect produced by the object and so gives rise to a new psychic datum." For example, it used to be thought that the so-called scientific method was completely objective, but it is now acknowledged that the observation and interpretation of any kind of data is colored by the subjective attitude of the observer, which necessarily involves both one's expectations and one's psychological predisposition.
Jung points out that our knowledge of the past depends on the subjective reactions of those who experienced and described what was happening around them. In this sense, subjectivity is a reality as firmly based in tradition and experience as is orientation toward the objective world. In other words, introversion is no less "normal" than extraversion.
Both, of course, are relative. Where the extravert sees the introvert as unsociable, unable or unwilling to adapt to the "real" world, the introvert judges the extravert as shallow, lacking in inner depth. There is as much and as little justification for the one attitude as for the other, since each has its strengths and its weaknesses.
One of the signs of introversion in a child, Jung notes, "is a reflective, thoughtful manner, marked shyness and even fear of unknown objects":
Very early there appears a tendency to assert himself over familiar objects, and attempts are made to master them. Everything unknown is regarded with mistrust; outside influences are usually met with violent resistance. The child wants his own way, and under no circumstances will he submit to an alien rule he cannot understand. When he asks questions, it is not from curiosity or a desire to create a sensation, but because he wants names, meanings, explanations to give him subjective protection against the object. I have seen an introverted child who made his first attempts to walk only after he had learned the names of all the objects in the room he might touch.
This kind of apotropaic action—a "magical" depotentiation of the object—is also characteristic of the introverted attitude in the adult. There is a marked tendency to devalue things and other persons, to deny their importance. Just as the object plays too great a role in the extraverted attitude, it has too little meaning for the introvert.
To the extent that consciousness is subjectivized and excessive importance is attached to the ego, there naturally arises, by way of compensation, an unconscious reinforcement of the object's influence. This makes itself felt, writes Jung, "as an absolute and irrepressible tie to the object":
The more the ego struggles to preserve its independence, free- dom from obligation, and superiority, the more it becomes enslaved to the objective data. The individual's freedom of mind is fettered by the ignominy of his financial dependence, his freedom of action trembles in the face of public opinion, his moral superiority collapses in a morass of inferior relationships, and his desire to dominate ends in a pitiful craving to be loved. It is now the unconscious that takes care of the relation to the object, and it does so in a way that is calculated to bring the illusion of power and the fantasy of superiority to utter ruin.
A person in this psychological situation can wear himself out with defense measures (in order to preserve the illusion of superiority), while making fruitless attempts to assert himself—impose his will on the object. "He is terrified of strong affects in others," writes Jung, "and is hardly ever free from the dread of falling under hostile influences."80
Naturally this takes a great deal of energy. A tremendous inner struggle is needed all the time in order to keep going. Thus the introvert is particularly prone to psychasthenia, "a malady," notes Jung, "characterized on the one hand by extreme sensitivity and on the other by great proneness to exhaustion and chronic fatigue."
In less extreme cases, introverts are simply more conservative than not: they husband their energy and would rather stay put than run about. But due to the habitual subjective orientation, there may also be a noticeable degree of ego inflation, coupled with an unconscious power drive.
Although Jung recognized the "peculiarities" of the introvert, especially as judged by the extraverted attitude, he also pointed out that the introvert "is by no means a social loss.
His retreat into himself is not a final renunciation of the world, but a search for quietude, where alone it is possible for him to make his contribution to the life of the community." In addition, whereas the extravert tends to avoid introspection, "self-communings," writes Jung, are a pleasure for the introvert:
He feels at home in his world, where the only changes are made by himself. His best work is done with his own resources, on his own initiative, and in his own way. If ever he succeeds, after long and often wearisome struggles, in assimilating something alien to himself, he is capable of turning it to excellent account.