“A Fatal Resistance To Life In This World“
Since I would be spending a sabbatical in Europe in the autumn of 1984, I sent Lawrence Durrell the essay printed below and asked if we might meet. He agreed that we should meet, seemingly on the basis of this essay which he said was “full of the real discernment of a true Gnostic outlook”. For the next two months, we corresponded about a time when we could meet in Paris. He was troubled with a sinus infection that seemed immune to all conventional cures, but finally succumbed to acupuncture, which also stopped his smoking and his drinking. So in October we met at Le Dôme, the brasserie where he conducted most of his business in Paris; he had come to publicise the publication of the French edition of Constance by Gallimard. He was in a good mood, receiving attention even from waiters. I particularly remember one who came to our table during lunch with a copy of an article about Durrell and a photograph of him in almost the same spot:
Durrell: After a nod and a thank you for the magazine: “Today, he calls me mâitre. Next week he will call someone else mâitre. But today, I am mâitre!”
For ten days, we had breakfast together and frequently lunch or dinner. On one occasion, my wife, Alice, and I were invited to a reception of apple pie and ice cream in honor of Durrell at George Whitman’s bookshop, Shakespeare and Co. An ottoman was reserved for me, and I sat at the knee of the master, while Jean Fanchette loungedon a sofa. As usual, the talk was of friends and food, seldom of literature. On a few occasions, though, I did ask about his writing. He said that he was quite surprised that The Alexandria Quartet assumed such importance, that he was “just trying to be contemporary” and that Eliot had seen The Black Book for what is was: “the story of a religious nervous breakdown”. He found Richard Aldington’s biography of T. E. Lawrence to be “incontestable”, though regrettable, since “England needed a hero, and Lawrence had been one”. I set forth my view of the two novels, Tunc and Nunquam, a somewhat curious idea of their structure: Tunc tells of the seduction of the inventor Felix Charlock by the Merlin Firm and of his rise, escape, and collapse. Tunc begins with Felix in the Firm’s sanitorium where he recovers, returns to the firm and family, with an unhealthy dose of revenge and mutilation. In my view, Tunc is actually a record of Felix’s therapy and chronologically belongs between the action it narrates and the action in Nunquam. Thus, we have three, not two, novels. About my curious view of Tunc and Nunquam when I asked if I was right, Durrell said: “No. But I like it”. I received his comment not only as approval of my imaginative use of his novels but as an indication of his view of narrative and of life itself: nothing is simple and single; all is becoming and dependent for meaning on perspective.
On the last morning he was in Paris, we had breakfast, as usual, at Le Dôme. Durrell still was not drinking but said: “That’s no reason you shouldn’t”. To be brief, I ordered deux vieux marc, which Alice picked up, inhaled and pushed aside. Marc is not an acquired taste, merely the messenger of destruction. Just before he left, Durrellasked us to go and see the only agent for his paintings, Marthe Nochy on Rue de Seine at Galerie Marthe Nochy. Over the years, Marthe would become a friend and a source of paintings. Though she is now dead, I have a video recording of a visit with her, and I can still hear her voice from an earlier interview when she said: “Many people thought Larry and I were lovers. But we were much more than that.” Her view of him as a generous friend, brilliant and talented, was mine as well at this time when he was so full of wit and laughter.
One morning on our way to breakfast, he bought a newspaper, which the man at the kiosk told him was neither right nor left but “right down the middle”. Reading to me an article about the sex life of French men, he noted that their average time for intercourse was twenty minutes. He looked up and observed: “Well, they bloody well take their time”. L’homme sensuel. Though Alice was with us for some lunches and dinners, I don’t recall she was ever with us at breakfast. As she later observed: “For Durrell, women are either with him or with someone else. I’m with you.” And she was right about a man I think of as a friend who, at the time, did not show the darkness that was always there and would be so much more manifest later.
Clearly, in my essay, he saw an understanding of that darkness. The cause of this darkness for the Gnostics was clear, and Durrell echoed it in The Avignon Quintet: our universe was created, malignantly or simply through error, by a demiurge who had usurped the power of the true god. One does not have to be steeped in the doctrines of the Gnostics to doubt that a loving god would create beings capable of such violence as is told in the history of our species or why so many of us brood about dying in pain and distress. But to accept as Durrell did the central tenet of Gnosticism, “to refuse to countenance a world which was less than perfect” (The Gnostics 7), one might well have to accept much that those early Gnostics did in their god drenched time. They believed that a spiritual world of transcendent and eternal beings, even ones of good and evil, does exist; and we can understand it even though we are made from the elements of imperfection.
“…interest in the problems of the human psyche is very much keener than I expected. This interest may be due in no small measure to the profound shock which our consciousness sustained through the World War. The spectacle of this catastrophe threw man back upon himself by making him feel his complete impotence; it turned his gaze inwards, and, with everything rocking about him, he must needs seek something that guarantees him a hold. Too many still look outwards, some believing in the illusion of victory and of victorious power, others in treaties and laws, and others again in the overthrow of the existing order. But still too few look inwards, to their own selves, and still fewer ask themselves whether the ends of human society might not best be served if each man tried to abolish the old order in himself, and to practice in his own person and in his own inward state these precepts, those victories which he preaches at every street-corner, instead of always expecting these things of his fellow man. Every individual needs revolution, inner division, overthrow of the existing order, and renewal, but not by forcing them upon his neighbors under the hypocritical cloak of Christian love or the sense of social responsibility or any of the other beautiful euphemisms for unconscious urges of personal power. 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.”
If Lawrence Durrell had planned for his character Constance to deliver an ode on the beauty of psychotherapy, this might have been his worksheet. However, this is part of Jung’s preface to the 1918 edition of On the Psychology of the Unconscious, which he had first published in 1913 (5). Here are the themes of Durrell’s most recent novels, the interwoven first four parts of the promised five of The Quincunx: Monsieur, Livia, Constance, Sebastian. Here, as well, are the dominant themes of Jung’s life and work:
- dispersed social values
- cultures accepting the most unexamined cures
- people so preoccupied with physical life that they repress whatever inconveniences
- a barely acknowledged fear that the world may be too evil to allow both life and sanity
- the hope that psychic life may be regenerated and made whole.
The connection between Jung and Durrell here is not one of influence but rather the resonance of two very similar notes struck at once, not in chronological terms but in my head.
In Monsieur Durrell plays the goat-song of a way of life that should have grown easily and gently into maturity, age, and death: Piers, Sylvie, and Bruce the naïve ménage à trois expecting the resilience of youth to endure life, which at best provides shards of belief to vindicate memory with present fact. Alack, we learn that this moderately happy trio is but the experience of the tribe purified by its very abused story-teller, Aubrey Blanford, who was himself begat by Lawrence Durrell. But that is a story to be told by someone who believes in the miraculous efficacy of Freudianism, not by someone looking for documentation for the cosmic screw-up of what we persist in calling “reality”. So the plot begins with Sam, Hillary, and Aubrey going to Avignon to spend a quiet summer with Hillary’s two sisters, Constance and Livia. Time is suspended in the sun and shadow of youth’s myths: that love will conquer desire, that bravery will conquer love, that danger integral to both love and bravery can be avoided. Alack again.
The evil in this idyll, though concentrated in Livia, is clearly a potential for all the characters in the four novels. By characters here I mean the basic types Durrell has chosen to present to us: Piers and Hillary as brothers, Pia and Livia as women confused by sexual demands, Sutcliffe and Blanford as the eternally commenting victims, Trash and Thrush as the sexually indiscriminate, Affad and Akkad as magus figures, Sylvie and Constance as objects of desire, Akkad’s Lily and Schwarz’s Lily as those decimated by life, and the ubiquitous and whimsical hypotenuse, Bruce. Though Durrell seems content with letting Bruce change hats when needed, the majority of the other characters serve to illustrate a way in which a role can be played. For instance, where Livia is aggressive, Pia is passive. Thrush is the object of Livia’s desire (and a rather decorous one at that) while Trash is a flamboyant exhibitionist who seduces Pia. The scene at the meat market in which Trash makes love to Pia in a split beef carcase while the butchers watch and laugh has the bizarre poignancy that Durrell develops so well, and it also incisively indicates the difference between Livia and Pia. So when viewed as examples of character, or personality, types, our fictional acquaintances illustrate human potential. From this we may generalise that the corruption of our world is basically the result of the human condition. Jung’s reflection on the evil that seems to have been released by World War 2 looks at cause, not effect:
“Nowadays we can see as never before that the peril which threatens all of us comes not from nature, but from man, from the psyches of the individuals and the mass. The psychic aberration of man is the danger. Everything depends upon whether or not the psyche functions properly. If certain persons lose their heads nowadays, a hydrogen bomb will go off.” (132)
Carried to the social level, human potential again is manifest as the ability to do good or evil, though good always seems more qualified that evil. I think that for both Durrell and Jung, good can only come about through an understanding of the psyche and a decision not to surrender the will to exercise the power to destroy and denigrate. Since no one yet has yet voted a philosopher president into office, the state will most likely continue to be benign at best. At its worst, the state becomes Nazi Germany or, as Durrell and Jung again mutually assert, Communist Russia. Being a novelist, Durrell shows the malignancy of the Nazi power in characters. Livia is a capsule summary of Nazi Germany from the violent enthusiasm of youth to the crumbling ruin that has no choice but destruction of the self as options dwindle. But the most strongly expressed examples of the evil are seen in the Nazi’s treatment of women. Von Esslin and Fischer, who command occupied Avignon, impersonally exploit their power by making women comply with emotionless demands: Von Esslin mounts his Polish maid without so much as speaking to her; Fischer allows Nancy Quiminal to “buy” lives of imprisoned Frenchmen by denigrating herself to his sexual whims. That both these men are despicable should lay to rest suggestions of Durrell’s lack of sensitivity to women’s needs.
In 1949 Jung wrote to Dorothy Thompson to explain his views of “mental catastrophe” as expressed in the totalitarian political structures of Nazi Germany and Communist Russia: “A political situation is the manifestation of a parallel psychological problem in millions of individuals. This problem is largely unconscious (which makes it a particularly dangerous one!) It consists of a conflict between a conscious ethical, religious, philosophical social, political, and psychological) standpoint and an unconscious one which is characterized by the same aspects but represented in a “lower,” i.e., more archaic form. Instead of “high” Christian ethics, the laws of the herd, suppression of individual responsibility and submission to the tribal chief (totalitarian ethics). Instead of religion, superstitious belief in an ad hoc doctrine of truth; instead of philosophy, a low-grade doctrinary system which “rationalizes” the appetites of the herd; . . . instead of psychology, use of psychological means to extinguish the individual spark and to inhibit the development of consciousness and intelligence. (Letters 535)
The lesson Jung derived from this litany of abuse he summarised to instruct us to understand that “we are not immune” to these “destructive powers”. They exist in our unconscious, as able to determine national identity where we live as they do in Russia. Both Durrell (in his appending The Last Will and Testament of Peter the Great to Constance) and Jung (in his admonition that we not by force destroy Russia – the equivalent of our unconscious) indicate that pan-slavism was and so continues as a movement directed by the most destructive part of the psyche, what Jung referred to as the shadow. The shadow is the continuance of the primitive in us and expresses the unconscious, usually in the most destructive forms.
Though Durrell may well be familiar with Jung’s views on the similar significance of Germany and Russia that is not as important as the similarity. By paralleling The Protocols of Zion with The Last Will and Testament of Peter the Great in the appendix to Constance, Durrell made the same equation between Germany and Russia that Jung did. The concurrence, perhaps, illustrates Jung’s idea of “synchronicity”, as described by him in The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche:
“I chose this term because the simultaneous occurrence of two meaningfully but not causally connected events seemed to me an essential criterion. I am therefore using the general concept of sychronicity in the special sense of a coincidence in time of two or more causally unrelated events which have the same or a similar meaning, in contrast to “synchronism,” which simply means the simultaneous occurrence of two events.” (44)
To clarify further: the two views of mono-societies as psychological as well as physical entities illustrate “synchronicity”, as does Constance’s meeting a German officer whose dead sister was named Constanza.
As a memory and as a character, Constance/Constanza in both forms is blonde and gentle. For Von Esslin, the memory of his twin sister provides access to the beautiful, even the compassionate. She was the unforgettable centre of his life, as she was for their father:
“The old man had worshipped Constanza, and he never really recovered from her death; he had pined away like an old mastiff, filling the salons with photographs of her as a woman before the slow wasting M.S. — sclerosis — had declared itself. How beautiful she had been; Egan himself had been stricken down with despair at so cruel a fate.” (Constance 30)
When Constance appears in Avignon with the Prince, we learn more of the nature of Von Esslin’s sister and her importance for him:
“He bathed in the memory of her blondness, of her warm blue regard, and the sentiment permeated his sensibility with tenderness made the more rich because its object was someone long since dead.” (180)
Constanza provides for her brother a relationship which causes him to experience what Jung in Two Essays on Analytical Psychology called the collective unconscious. The part of the psyche which is shared by people in general and repressed by the demands of the conscious life is this collective unconscious and is different from the personal unconscious:
“The personal unconscious contains lost memories, painful ideas that are repressed (i.e., forgotten on purpose), subliminal perceptions, by which are meant sense-perceptions that were not strong enough to reach consciousness, And finally, contents that are not yet ripe for consciousness. It corresponds to the figure of the shadow so frequently met with in dreams.”
Jung in this passage uses the shadow as the negative part of the personality, “the aim of all those unpleasant qualities we lie to hide” (66). The shadow is the primitive in all people and, as one would expect, often manifests itself in violent and destructive behaviour. For the Nazi, the shadow had been allowed to control personal and national behaviour.
In Jungian psychology, the collective contents of the unconscious are expressed through the archetypal male and female powers. In the unconscious of man is the female archetype, anima, which provides him with access to emotion, tempering the harshness of his masculine reasoning faculty. For a woman, the animus does the reverse. A woman dominated by animus is controlled by “unreasonable ideas,” as was Livia, the paradigm of the Nazi convert. In Aion, Jung defines the anima-dominated man as controlled by “unreasonable emotions” (15). Darley in Justine and Charlock in Tunc and Nunquam are such men, though no one in The Quintet really suits the form. Constance does, however, bring men to experience the anima. Both Sam and Aubrey find completion in their love of her. She is able to bring Affad to such a complete experience of passion and compassion that he almost rejects the idea that has been the most important focus of his life: the death pact of his Gnostic brotherhood. As with Von Esslin, Constance can soften the harsh demands of reason, but she cannot overcome the all too human desire to reject the horrifying potential of existence by “a fatal resistance to life in this world”, as Jung in his memoir referred to some potentially fatal “accidents” of his childhood (286).
Though Constance could not save Affad, who by a quirk of synchronicity is murdered by accident while he awaits murder by intention, her existence encompasses and transcends the idea-bound lives of all the men whose existences she touches. In the case of Sylvie and Nancy Quiminal, her power extends to women. Not only is she able to cause men to experience the anima, she expresses in her life the generative and healing power of the anima in her own femininity. For Jung:
“The anima of a man has a strongly historical character. As a personification of the unconscious she goes back into prehistory, and embodies the contents of the past. She provides the individual with these elements he ought to know about his prehistory. To the individual, the anima is all life that has been in the past and is still alive in him. In comparison to her I have always felt myself to be a barbarian who really has no history — like a creature just sprung out of nothingness, with neither a past nor a future.” (9)
Though her using the same perfume as did his mother causes Affad’s son to break his silence, Constance’s gentleness and love cure the boy, as her physical love had cured Schwarz.
At the end of Monsieur, we see that the experience of her transcends her presence. Blanford continues to consult her about his writing and his life long after her absence:
“It was late when Blanford paid the bill and said goodnight to the duchess; wearily the waiters hovered round him. They had come to respect this distinguished elderly Englishman who came so often to spend the whole evening talking in whispers to the empty alcove—for it was some time since the name of the Duchess had appeared on the death-map of the stars. The yawning linkboys would be sitting about in the dark street waiting for a signal to bring the bath chair in and roll him out to the sedan. In it perhaps he might find a letter with an Egyptian postmark. Or it might be at this moment lying on the table with all the other correspondence, in front of Cade who read on and on into the momentous night.” (305)
Though the presence and experience of Constance was of such moment as to be historical, collective, greater than the individual, it could not conquer the human urge to be freed through death of life’s horrifying potential. Even Constance became part of the death cult. We must wait for the fifth tree which marks the sacred spot to learn why Constance died, though quite probably she did so to achieve immortality, to slough off the mass of accident that is life in this world.
Durrell and Jung, both so preoccupied with tracing the source of Gnostic polarity of good and evil, nevertheless seem to separate on the significance of that polarity. For Jung the polarity of good and evil led him to assert the importance of choice. More importantly, he understood that evil manifest in the shadow as humanity’s inescapable desire to destroy or to run in terror from the possibility that chaos may be the real nature of things. Clearly, for Jung the process of individuation, of understanding the unconscious, could help individuals avoid evil. And the awareness of essential reality as composed of such polarity caused Jung from early childhood to attempt a union of the two. Such a union could, obviously, only exist outside the organic experience since, apparently, no one has yet found the lapis, the philosopher’s stone, that can effect such transmutation. Even so, as Jung explained in his memoir, he continued his inquiry into the secrets of alchemy, often with some quirkily unusual conclusions:
“I regard my work on alchemy as a sign of my inner relationship with Goethe. Goethe’s secret was that he was in the grip of that process of archetypal transformation which has gone on through centuries. Faust was his main “business,” and his whole life was enacted within the framework of this drama.”
Within that framework, Jung believed Goethe experienced “the great dream of the mundus archetyupus (archetypal world)”. Jung, too, was “haunted by the same dream”, and from the age of eleven his life was “permeated and held together by one idea and one goal: namely to penetrate into the secret of the personality”. (206)
For Durrell the evil potential of humanity seems to be a symptom of the unavoidable “death-drift” of the world, entropy. And the most important question the individual can ask is whether or not to interfere with that movement. In Sebastian, the fourth volume of The Avignon Quintet, that is Schwarz’s question for Constance; and in spite of his complaint that “man is the only animal that knows better but always fares worse”, he still committed suicide (16 ). Clearly, as with Affad, conscious and intentional death is a way in which one can be free of accidental, even whimsical, flexings of entropy.
But one must wonder if another alternative does not exist. With the power of Constance to heal, the possibility of conflict between the powerful forces appears: that which would wound and that which would heal. Yet she too accepted death, as did Affad. The foolishness of Lord Galen and the petulance of the Prince certainly do not tempt one to believe that the nature of individual and collective life will be much improved with such as they in power. Yet Durrell may yet have an answer that allows the power of Constance to become both conscious and dominant. After all, Durrell waited until the very end of Nunquam to send Felix Charlock on his Christmas eve mission to save the world by destroying the records that bound life to contracts and codicils that only lawyers can understand. In so doing, Felix put life into a potentially chaotic situation, but at least human beings would have to accept one another’s word. (318)
One might well ask why I would choose to relate Durrell and Jung since Freud figures so prominently in the novels. Freud’s black leather couch is trekked from Vienna to Avignon. Constance and Schwarz are trained in Freudian analysis; and then there is the long history of Freud, old Doc Joy, in Durrell’s novels. And Affad when accused by Constance of being “anti-Freudian” defends himself by saying:
“No. I revere him, I even revere the purity of his unshakable belief in scientific reason. His discovery was as important as the microscope, or the petrol engine, a sudden enlarging of our field of vision. How could one not admire it?” (Constance 304)
Jung himself had so praised Freud. Yet he pursued an approach very different from his. Likewise for Durrell it seems. That Freud opened the door into the unconscious is beyond question; but he also passed judgement on what could come out of that door, as Jung recalled in his memoir:
“I can still recall vividly how Freud said to me, ‘My dear Jung, promise me never to abandon the sexual theory. That is the most essential thing of all. You see, we must make a dogma of it, an unshakable bulwark’.” (150)
The bulwark was protection from “the black tide of mud … of occultism” (20). Freud’s dogmatising experience effectively ended the association with Jung and indicates as well the limited relevance Freudian thought has to Durrell’s inquiries. For Durrell, like Jung, had a constant concern with the power of the spirit to transcend the body’s knowledge and ability. Like Jung, and again unlike Freud, mono as a prefix to any concept seems unappealing to Durrell who has recorded the disintegration of monolithic countries and companies. But of more importance to my interest in the writings of the two men is the greater resonance they lend one another’s inquiries.
When I visited Durrell last in November of 1985 at his home in Sommières, he had completed The Quintet with the writing of Quinx or The Ripper’s Tale, but it was not yet in print. So I could not ask much about it, but he gave me his view: “That silly book”.
In Quinx, the characters and their creator continue the manic mode of Gnosticism established earlier, as they wait and wonder what will come first: the final throes of entropy or the destruction of themselves and Avignon if they trip the booby trap of mines in the caves concealing the treasure of the Templars. The last days of the German occupation of Avignon had been resisted by sappers who refused to blow up the caves, thus destroying Avignon. Instead they mined them to prevent intrusion. In their own way, they resisted evil as had the Gnostics when they refused to countenance the morality and worship of Christian authorities they saw as manifestations of evil. We must, as well, acknowledge that Durrell accepted the basic views and tenets of Gnosticism; otherwise, he could not have devoted so much of his life as a writer to narrating them. But he did so with considerable reservations.
For the Gnostics, as is illustrated by Sebastian, love is “treachery” since it not only condones but facilitates the perpetuation of our species. Remember that for the Gnostics, the real rebellion against the power of the usurping demiurge, or Monsieur, was death; and the cult of arranged death was central to the narrative of The Avignon Quintet. I can not think of a novelist more dedicated to portraying love in all its phases from banal lust to nearly disembodied love than Durrell. And in his own life love often obsessed him. No, he never denied the importance of love. And when I talked with him in Sommières, he was with Françoise Kestsman, a woman of beauty and intelligence who would be his last wife. He told me that he had asked around in the village for someone to do some char work. One day he answered the door: “Here was this beautiful Polish aristocrat. I was in love.” And I believe he remained so until he died. And for such an idea, for such an emotion, he would have been banished by the Gnostics about whom he wrote.
But that does not explain his calling Quinx “a silly book”. Between the time he finished the last novel of The Avignon Quintet and its publication, his daughter Sappho committed suicide. He was riven by her death, which challenged much that had driven his novels, that death could be a release and even a form of rebellion, even cause for celebration. He told me that one night a woman friend came to see him bearing a bouquet and a bottle of champagne. She said: “Darling, Anaïs has died. I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone but me!” And he certainly had long experience with death, having lived through violent times to old age, so much so, it seems, that he could consider death as a philosophic abstraction, as a narrative to be explored. Yet, as he wrote of Sebastian, he knew better: “He sighed as he thought of the desert. It too was an abstraction like the idea of death — until the life of the oasis made it a brutal reality” (39). I don’t think Durrell could or did recover from the death of Sappho, which made all his abstractions suddenly and terminally present. Like Livia, she hanged herself. He never got over this. In my view, he chose death himself after this, a death most suitable and welcoming: he drank red wine from morning to night in a way that no system could sustain. Mine certainly couldn’t. I drank along with him for a few dizzy days and knew that I could not continue; and he had no intention of changing. Before the fact of death, all ideas about it are silly, and Durrell lived, for a while, with that knowledge.
What he left us, along with narratives of constantly surprising force and beauty, is a paean to humanity, which is best understood by its incompleteness. I once considered writing about incomplete love as a central theme in Durrell’s writings and mentioned this to Françoise Kestsman. She replied, wisely: “Frank, all love is incomplete. I learned that from a man, and it wasn’t Larry.” What lovers experience or parents and children or friends, is caught between the ideal and base: in the view of Gnostics between light and mud. I would like to believe that this incompleteness is the central sign of our existence and worthy of celebrations. But I am sure that Durrell saw it as, at best, worthy of a rather jaundiced view, perhaps even a “lukewarm eyebrow” raised in mockery. Yet caught as he was in the certainty of death and the promise of an unknowable future, he remains for me the homme sensuel I had lunch with at his home in Sommières: far too much red wine drunk with a a chicken curry prepared with curry powder “straight from the armpit of the Dali Lama,” as Larry said. We will all, in time, have to make our own peace with what we love and lose.
Durrell, Lawrence. Constance, Or Solitary Practices. New York: Viking, 1982.
… . Monsieur, Or the Prince of Darkness. New York: Viking, 1975.
… . Nunquam. New York: Dutton, 1970.
… . Sebastian, Or Ruling Passions. London: Faber and Faber, 1983.
Jung, Carl Gustav. Aion. Researches into the Phenomonlogy of the Self. Collected Works, Vol. 9. Pt. 2. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968
… . C.G. Jung. Letters. Selected and Edited by Gerard Adler with Aniela Jaffe. Ttans. R.F.C. Hull. 2 vols. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973.
… . Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Recorded and Edited by Aniela Jaffe. trans. Richard and Clara Winston. New York: Vintage, 1963.
… . The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. Collected Works. Vol. 8. trans. R,F.C. Hull. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981
… . Two Essays on Analytical Psychology. Collected Works. Vol. 7. trans. R.F.C. Hull. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972.
Lacarrière, Jacques, The Gnostics. Foreword by Lawrence Durrell. London: Peter Owen, 1977.