"Do you consider yourself happy?"
"Enormously, Tom."
"So do I. Why? How come? When you spend about ninety per cent of your time considering the unhappiness of the world?"
"Somebody has to collect the garbage or we'd all die of plague. And a born garbage collector loves his job."
"There's more to it than that."
"Yeah. It's not garbage. It's what we discard, ignore, repress. The green fertilizer of the next crop. The yin to the coming yang. My contemplation of what you call the unhappy aspects of life is really the substance of what I find to be hope."
"Jung changed you a lot, Phil."
"I dunno. I got thinking—some years back—of a poem I wrote when I was twenty-one. Threw it away—lost it—haven't any idea what happened to it. But in that poem was the fundamental Jungian idea—the idea that instinct directs human affairs—and that it's a force in action which always has equal and opposite reactions—"
"Still—Archie—"