An image comes to mind, and I must put it into words. The book open before me will wait. It can’t move on its own. Yet it seems to be moving things inside of me. I know that paper with words on it can’t affect me in that way, or am I so certain? I’ve read two long paragraphs, the opening two of Jung’s introduction to Symbols of Transformation, originally written in 1912 with a different title. Over the last eighteen years, I’ve read those words many times, more than I wish to count. Maybe, until now, those words haven’t counted to me. It has taken me much longer than I could’ve imagined to learn to think about my own life psychologically. Until a few years ago, I assumed I was doing it. Then, one day, in a conversation with a psychoanalyst whom I’d known for several years, he said that it seemed as if I were just beginning to become psychologically minded. I wanted to walk out of the room. Later on, when I was calmer, I realized that there must be much about myself below that anger for me to become aware of. A memory of reading those two long paragraphs of Jung’s, in 2000 or 2001, returns. I was in bed with the thick paperback, trying to read Jung’s intuitive sentences and watch the evening news at the same time. I want to write that it was a futile mental exercise. Perhaps it was what I was capable of doing at the time. Many years have passed. Psychologically, I’m ready to reread the two long paragraphs, without the TV on.