This classic provides a lucid exposition of the meaning behind the symbolism of fairy tales. Fairy tales, as part of folklore, present a robust array of symbols to be interpreted.
One might ask: why speak in symbols, anyway? In semiotics, there are three general categories of signs. The first is the icon, an analogue for the real thing it represents. A picture of a lion, for instance, is an icon of the real animal. The second is the index, which refers to something by directing our attention to it—like pointing a finger toward a lion. The third category is the symbol, where the sign does not terminate in the object itself but serves as a springboard for further permutations of meaning. While icons and indices refer to the lion as a sign, with meaning stopping at the animal itself, symbolic meaning transcends the lion. It may represent courage, nobility, or dominance, among other things. As the possible meanings attached to a symbol surpass both the quantity and quality of literal representations, symbols amplify abstract thought. Even words function as symbols, as the objects they signify transcend the words themselves.
But we must ask ourselves: upon what map and by what rules do symbols anchor their meaning? There exists a stable, pervading structure of meanings constellating around symbols. This structure cannot reside in the objects themselves, for if it did, symbols would not transcend their literal forms. Neither can it be merely abstracted from objects, for such a derivation would be a posteriori and could not account for the universal experiences shared by peoples from the Arctic to Patagonia. There must exist a transcendent plane from which the meanings of symbols are derived—what we call the archetypal plane.
This naturally raises the question: upon what basis do archetypes, belonging to a different ontological plane, relate to our material plane, governed by physical laws? A simple observation reveals that while instincts and causality reign supreme in our world, notable exceptions exist. Just as the King’s majesty extends throughout his demesne, yet is mediated by ministers and curbed in remote territories or sacred grounds, so too do instincts govern, but not absolutely. There are moments when instincts are thwarted by reason. Lukasz coined the term somatic-psychological antagonism to describe this tension between body and spirit. A starving mother, her body quaking with hunger and mind consumed by yearning for food, might still surrender her last morsel to her famished child. Instinct, rather than reigning supreme, exists along a spectrum. It occupies the extreme end in automatic bodily processes, such as digestion or the instinctual flight from mortal danger.
Jung encapsulated the relationship between archetype and instinct:
“Instinct is nature’s aim in us; it is the part of ourselves that is most thoroughly subject to natural law. As such, it represents the partie inférieure of the personality, but one which is indispensable to the whole. The archetype is the partie supérieure*, representing the spirit or meaning that strives to shape and inform the raw material of instinct. The two are complementary aspects of the same fundamental process, like the two poles of a magnet.”*
(CW 8, para. 398)
In my view, archetypes and instincts correspond to the psyche and the somatic. When the soul finds itself bound to the body—particularly in strictly instinctual situations, such as fleeing from danger—one acts based on instinct. But when the soul finds itself in a space beyond the instinctual plane, such as in introspection or daily conscious life, it orients itself around the psyche, which constellates around archetypes as naturally as the body does around instincts. The true difference lies in the domain in which the soul finds itself.
Just as the body is compelled to obey the laws of instinct, the psyche is similarly bound by the archetypes. Only in the realm of spirit—where one recollects oneself as pure soul, conceived as a particular instantiation of the Divine Archetypes—can one achieve a greater degree of freedom. In both the somatic and psychical planes, one must engage in perpetual transcendence, vanquishing opposing forces toward a state of holism: the integration of unconscious, automatic processes. In the realm of instinct, this means curbing bodily laziness and addiction. In the psychical realm, it requires conscious awareness of automatic patterns resulting from specific archetypal constellations.
The existence of archetypes is as real as the imprinting of instinct. Just as Konrad Lorenz’s ducklings instinctively followed his steps—a pathognomonic image of imprinting—so too do archetypal patterns manifest in the psyche. One need only consider maladaptive schemas: automatic cognitive and behavioral patterns triggered by specific events rooted in early childhood. These schemas often manifest in primordial form, reflected in folklore.
In the instinctual realm, one finds hands, legs, and body engaged in the execution of instinctual acts. Likewise, in the psychical realm, one finds organs of the psyche—logical components that render psychical events intelligible, much like Wittgenstein’s notion of facts composed of parts. We can dissect the role of each part that constitutes the event. Under the heading of “responding to trauma,” countless symbolic permutations could capture the state of the experience.
It would be erroneous to claim that Jungian analysts invented the symbolism pervading folklore and dreams. They merely articulate meanings long recognized across civilizations. From the Senoi and Xavante dream-discussions to the Dream Stele at the foot of the Sphinx, from Joseph’s interpretation of Pharaoh’s dreams to the daily cycles of dreaming and their fulfillment—symbolic interpretation has accompanied humanity since the dawn of history.
To dismiss the role of dreams and symbols in waking life is regressive. These symbolic experiences have undeniably shaped pivotal historical moments. Consider Pompey’s dream, on the eve of Pharsalus, of being received into the temple of Venus Victrix in full majesty. His advisors’ hubristic interpretation led Pompey to advance his numerically superior troops, only for them to falter against Caesar’s hardened veterans. Caesar himself would repeat the same error, dismissing his wife Calpurnia’s dream of his deification—mere days before his assassination on the Ides of March. Likewise, it would be absurd to relegate Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream…” to mere fantasy, given how that speech reverberated into waking life, catalyzing transformative change across American society.
Far from mere superstition, the symbolic and dreamlike possess empirical foundations. Dreams function as simulations for potential actions—an adaptive mechanism employed not only by humans but also by mammals. Hobson and Friston (2012), through the free energy principle, argued that dreaming helps the brain minimize prediction errors by running simulations in a safe, “offline” mode. Wagner et al. (2004) demonstrated how sleep can inspire insight: participants who experienced REM sleep were more likely to discern hidden patterns in problem-solving tasks. This aligns with the theory that dreaming facilitates information retention and creative solutions. Plihal and Born (1997) provided participants with two tasks: 1) a paired-associate word list (declarative memory) and 2) a mirror-tracing task (procedural memory). Participants tested after the first half of sleep—rich in slow-wave sleep—showed improved declarative memory, while those tested after the second half—dominated by REM sleep—performed better on procedural tasks.
During slow-wave sleep, hippocampal neurons replay recent experiences, facilitating hippocampal-neocortical dialogue. This strengthens relevant synapses while pruning weaker ones, reinforcing long-term memories. As sleep transitions to REM, the brain continues replaying these associations, often in bizarre, symbolic forms—akin to free association in psychoanalysis, where the loosening grip of the prefrontal cortex allows the unconscious to surface. This dreamlike process parallels therapeutic free association, culminating in insight and catharsis—the proverbial eureka moment.
Dreams thus act as a personal simulation theatre—our own virtual reality tool. Returning to the discussion of symbols in folklore and dreams, it becomes possible to map dream components and catalyze therapeutic change. Life is not driven solely by Freud’s pleasure principle or the reinstatement of biological motives like sexuality. We strive for finality, completion, and wholeness. In my clinical observations, even psychotic content often reveals symbolic patterns, such as the mandala—typically depicted as a sphere, disc, moon, or sun—emerging when patients near resolution. The mandala represents the process of individuation: the Self’s journey toward transcendence.
The psychical organs within folklore and dreams typically divide into four principal archetypes: Self, Shadow, Anima/Animus, and the Mother/Father complexes. The Self and Shadow often appear as the Hero and same-gender characters, while the Anima/Animus manifests as opposite-gender figures. Notably, current classifications seldom distinguish between the Anima/Animus and the Mother/Father complexes, nor do they categorize immaterial entities such as settings or the mandala itself.
The purpose of folklore and dreams is to induce change. Empirical evidence confirms that dreams simulate possible actions and outcomes. Thus, it is crucial to distinguish mutable from immutable archetypes. The Hero clearly belongs to the mutable category, as the entire motif revolves around their transformation. The Shadow, representing repressed or unconscious aspects of the personal psyche, also evolves as the Hero integrates these elements. Frodo’s growth in The Lord of the Rings necessitates Gandalf’s transformation from Gandalf the Grey to Gandalf the White—a clear representation of the Hero’s maturation through the integration of inferior functions.
The Anima/Animus, under my interpretation, extends beyond the supposed feminine/masculine counterpart. It represents the striving for the ideal Other. Today’s confusion regarding gender stems from an inability to sustain an image of the ideal Other. As the Anima/Animus appears in dynamic forms, it too belongs to the mutable category. I contend that the Old Man/Woman archetype belongs not to the Shadow but to the Anima/Animus, as their mentorship facilitates the Hero’s quest for the Boon-Treasure—an ultimate Other.
The World, encompassing the motif’s totality beyond the Self, Shadow, Anima/Animus, and Mother/Father complexes, also belongs to the mutable. As insight accumulates, the World transforms—the mandala becomes clearer, the plagued kingdom turns fertile, and so forth.
The Mother-Father complexes, by contrast, remain immutable. Jung observed that instantiated archetypes contain both a meaning-nucleus and an experiential component. Thus, despite varying parental experiences, the archetypal image of Mother and Father persists. Adolescence itself serves to transition from the overpowering influence of the internal Mother-Father to the external Other, embodied in the pursuit of love.
While archetypes assume infinite forms, their manifestations follow recurring patterns. These patterns often unfold in four major stages, fitting the archetypal quaternity, which symbolizes completion. Thus, we can tentatively identify the following archetypal spectrum:
1. Shadow: Antagonist, Trickster, Companion, Mentor
2. Anima/Animus: Harlot, Witch, Peasant-Wife, Beatrice
3. Father: Empyrean, Mercurial, Old Man, Godhead
4. Mother: Kalijaga-Tash, Inanna, Grandmother, Virgin Mary