One day, while painting Philemon’s portrait, Jung heard a knock on his garden gate. Outside stood an old man carrying a dead kingfisher—a bird Jung had never seen in that region before. In that synchronicity, Jung knew: The psyche is not inside your head. The psyche is the fabric of reality. It is dangerous. It is beautiful. And it asks only one question of its reader:

He began hearing voices. He saw visions of floods of blood covering Europe (a premonition, he later realized, of WWI). He was, by his own admission, on the verge of a psychotic break. Instead of taking medication or retreating to an asylum, Jung invented a radical form of self-therapy. He called it Active Imagination .

Philemon was the living proof of the collective unconscious. Decades later, Jung realized: Philemon was my inner guru. He was not me. He was what the Hindus call a “daimon.”

Critics call it “narcissistic mysticism.” Admirers call it “the most important spiritual work of the 20th century.”