When I first read Jung, I was 23, fresh out of my first masters program, jobless, newly moved to Boulder, Colorado to make a life performing music. Opening Campbell’s Portable Jung was, for me, opening the gates of hell where I felt powerless and empowered at the same time, as if I were the protagonist in an enormous mystery that promised to make life hazardous and new. Not that I was the only character in this adventure, but it seemed too that all characters were me, in part, and ancient, and suddenly unfamiliar. I had some inkling then the mainstream of psychology in America had turned away from the psychoanalytic tradition, especially depth psychology with its new-age aura, but I did not see yet how a spirit of resistance, impatience, and misreading (or lack of reading altogether) would eventually characterize the more dominant strains of philosophy and literary criticism. Many attacks on Jung were valid of course, but some were ad hominem, some directed at Jungian culture, some prone to reductio ad absurdum. Truth was, I too did not find Jungian literary criticism very interesting: so many easy deployments of ready-made categories, as if the accumulation of correspondences amounted to some profoundly new awareness. What I did know was, as I wore my Portable Jung to tatters, my dreams went bonkers. I heard strange uncontrollable music in my sleep. Something was happening to me. It was not painful, as revelation was supposed to be. I did not suffer the knowledge yet. But something was moving in there. Something had yet to move.