Marie-Louise von Franz

Her theories about mythology and religion examined by Stefan Stenudd

Marie-Louise von Franz (1915-1998) was one of the most prominent and loyal followers of Jung during the 20th century, lecturing into her 70s and writing until her death. She was born in Munich to Austrian parents, and the family moved to Switzerland in 1919, after World War I. At the age of 18, in 1933, she met Carl G. Jung, and the next year she began her analytical training with him.

Archetypes of Mythology

by Stefan Stenudd
This book examines Jungian theories on myth and religion, from Carl G. Jung to Jordan B. Peterson. Click the image to see the book at Amazon (paid link).

Psychoanalysis of Mythology

by Stefan Stenudd
This book examines Freudian theories on myth and religion, from Sigmund Freud to Erich Fromm. Click the image to see the book at Amazon (paid link).

Being of small means but a student of classical philology, she paid by translating Greek and Latin texts related to his research on alchemy. She was to work closely with him until his death.[1]

She stayed committed to Jung’s theories. Displeased with the Jung Institute being influenced by non-Jungians in the 1980s, she parted with it and later formed the Centre for the Research into the Psychology of C.G. Jung, bringing several analysts and students with her.[2]

The Centre was founded in 1994, its present name being Research and Training Centre for Depth Psychology according to C.G. Jung and Marie-Louise von Franz.[3]

Through the years, Marie-Louise von Franz was quite a productive lecturer and writer. Many of her books were transcripts of lectures, which might explain her straightforward writing, unusually accessible compared to many of her colleagues — including Jung.

Since the start of her path within Jungian psychology, a main theme of hers was to examine and explain fairy tales from that perspective, but she also wrote about alchemy, dreams, numerology, and other subjects favored by Jung. A decade after his death, her Jung biography was published.[4]

Pure Fairy Tales

In most of her texts on fairy tales, von Franz jumps right at analyzing the psychological implications of specific tales, but in one of the books, An Introduction to the Interpretation of Fairy Tales from 1970, she starts by giving an explanation to her fascination with those types of stories:

Fairy tales are the purest and simplest expression of collective unconscious psychic processes. Therefore their value for the scientific investigation of the unconscious exceeds that of all other material. They represent the archetypes in their simplest, barest and most concise form. In this pure form, the archetypal images afford us the best clues to the understanding of the processes going on in the collective psyche. In myths or legends, or any other more elaborate mythological material, we get at the basic patterns of the human psyche through an overlay of cultural material. But in fairy tales there is much less specific conscious cultural material and therefore they mirror the basic patterns of the psyche more clearly.[5]

Jung as well as most of his followers preferred to dig deep into myths of the ancient past, where deities and heroes were involved in fantastic feats. In comparison, her approach is rather humble — but her reason for it is not. She claims that the fairy tales reveal more and truer things about the psyche than elaborate myths can. To her, they are myths stripped bare.

That can be discussed, but what fairy tales tend to show are stories from outside the temples, close to the lives of common people. They have nothing to do with the creation of the world, or battles between gods risking its destruction. And though they often contain magic, it is not of a very spectacular kind, not something earth-shattering. Compared to mythology, fairy tales are plain, even trivial. They don’t tell of big and important things.

This brings them an impression of innocence, of not to be taken seriously. Just for amusement. So, the powers that be have neglected them and what they might have to say. Therefore, they are comparably free of politics and other controlling influences. In that way, they are pure. But it does not necessarily make them simple, nor are they sure to show the basic patterns of the psyche less distorted.

Such assumptions come from prejudice. Human beings are equally complicated, whatever their place in the hierarchy is or what scale there is to their endeavors. The deities and heroes of mythology behave like ordinary people do, with the same personal urges and shortcomings. The size doesn’t change the substance. The psychology must be the same. So, analysis of fairy tales can’t be much different from that of myths, nor the result of it.

According to von Franz, all fairy tales describe one psychic fact, which is the Self, "the psychic totality of an individual and also, paradoxically, the regulating center of the collective unconscious."[6] It is safe to say that in Jungian theory this is at the core of every myth, and not just in fairy tales.

The basic patterns that fairy tales follow more clearly than myths usually do are those of a story. They have clear beginnings and ends, protagonists and antagonists, obstacles and solutions. Of course, that dramaturgical structure can be traced also in myths, but it is rarely as obvious and direct as in fairy tales. The purity of them is in their storytelling.

Mainly, fairy tales describe the fate of individuals, such as the peasant boy defeating a troll, marrying the princess and becoming a prince. The events affect the lives of the few characters directly involved. They don’t change the course of the sun, or separate the land from the sea, or bring the mastery of fire to the people. Contrary to mythology, they alter neither the way the world works nor human conditions. They don’t even aspire to explain why snakes have no legs.

Still, there may be general truths about the human psyche found in fairy tales — as well as in myths — and their patterns.

The Answer Within Dramaturgy

The question to ponder first is why those stories all share the same dramaturgical structure. Marie-Louise von Franz and the other Jungians jump to the conclusion that it is because of the archetypal content in the collective unconscious, aimed to guide us all towards individuation.

That jump, though, skips the obvious search for the answer within dramaturgy. If it can in itself explain its presence and homogeneity in just about every story — and it can — there is no need for far-fetched ideas of hidden workings of the unconscious, which have not been proven in the least for the more than one hundred years they have been around. Dramaturgy, on the other hand, has been known and applied successfully since before Aristotle’s Poetics explained it.

Fundamentally, stories are about getting something that is wanted or unwanted. The former induces delight and the latter dismay, also in the audience since we are empathic creatures.

Aristotle connected the happy ending to comedy and the sad one to tragedy, and the reward for the audience was catharsis, an emotional cleansing, sort of what a rollercoaster ride creates. Without that catharsis, the audience is displeased with the story and wants neither to hear the story again nor retell it to anyone else.

No archetypes are needed to explain it, nor an unconscious operating in secrecy within our minds. We want what we want and not what we don’t want. That is as basic as being hungry, which is a joy when food is accessible but torment when it is not. It’s not a mystery to us. The Jungian explanation, argued also by von Franz, claims that what we really want is something else, which is unknown to us, and yet it urges us on. It is like saying we would not know to eat when we are hungry.

Also, when applied to fairy tales, it would demand that they have an outcome different from what the characters could conceive or even understand they wanted. That’s not how it plays out in fairy tales. The characters may have regarded the outcome as highly implausible, but definitely possible and its reward completely comprehendible — also in advance. There is simply no hidden factor involved.

What is intriguing, returning to Aristotle, is that also a tragic ending brings catharsis. They are few in fairy tales, but they do exist. Why would an audience find any kind of satisfaction in that?

In Jungian terms it would be a progression towards failing to reach the self-realization of individuation. That might make sense as a chapter in a story, but hardly as its ending. It would scream out that the story is incomplete, since it has not reached its conclusion, the goal of it. The troll is not killed, the kingdom not won.

Dramaturgically, though, the story is completed also in a tragedy. A story can go from fortune to misfortune, as well as the other way around. It can be about getting the unwanted. Sure enough, that happens in life, so there is recognition and therefore empathy of the audience. Just as we can share the joy of others — real or imaginary — we can grieve their misfortune. That is enough for catharsis.

But also, the plot of tragedies is often more intricate than that of comedies, which might be why Aristotle preferred them. They end with the unwanted, but still an obstacle was overcome, a solution reached. The protagonist’s misfortune is not greater than that of the antagonist. The former triumphs over the latter, if not in deed so in character. It is a sacrifice for the greater good. Ours is a social species, so we can agree with that.

In a fairy tale, we accept that it ends with the misfortune of its hero as long as the adversary’s end is not fortunate. The hero may fail, but only if less so than the adversary. In this roundabout manner, a bad ending can still be good and the hero’s fate is in some way a victory. If the adversary alone succeeds, the fairy tale will be dismissed by the audience and quickly forgotten.

Redundant Explanations

As for how Marie-Louise von Franz interprets fairy tales, it is difficult to stay a patient observer of it, since she does so with a dogmatism surpassing that of Jung. It is this way or the highway.

She spends several pages of the above-mentioned introduction dismissing other researchers of fairy tales and myths, because they showed no sign of incorporating the analytical psychology approach, for which she does not even try to present any substantial arguments. This uncompromising attitude is surely in part due to the fact that the book consists of transcripts from her lectures at the C. G. Jung Institute, i.e., afore allies. Also, her straightforward language reveals her standpoint blatantly.

This does not change when she starts analyzing specific fairy tales. Her first example is The Three Feathers from the fairy tale collection of the Grimm brothers, about three sons of a king competing to inherit the kingdom.[7] She turns to alchemy to explain what the king symbolizes, as if this figure would otherwise lack any significance.

A king is a king, in no need of some hidden significance — and was even more so in the days when kings truly ruled the world. If he were a farmer, his three sons would not be that anxious to inherit his position. In the story, there is nothing more to it. But to von Franz, he “represents the divine principle in its visible form; he is its incarnation or embodiment, its dwelling-place.”[8] All that amplification of his role is redundant. The story works well without it. She ends up claiming that the king is a symbol of the Self, again something superfluous to the story, not to mention questionable.

The fact that the king and his sons are male is another thing she dwells upon, but that, too, is easily explained. Kingdoms were inherited on the male line — and often still are. Sadly, a daughter would stand no chance, and every audience would know it.

Also, she claims that the king “leaves it to fate to settle who shall inherit the kingdom,” but he does no such thing. He puts his sons to the test, albeit with an element of chance, throwing the three feathers to decide where each son will go to complete the task. And what they do shows clearly that their characters are what decide the outcome. Only one of them takes the task seriously.

The fact that what the king throws are feathers makes von Franz discuss the archetypal significance of birds, their bearers. Well, what else could he throw up in the air that the wind would spread in different directions? It needs to be nothing more than a fancy way to introduce an element of chance. The same can be said about the wind sending them out. To von Franz it is a connection to spiritual power, such as that of the Holy Ghost. But that additional meaning is not necessary for the story to make sense, and hinted nowhere in it.[9]

Where we can agree with her is what she sees as the moral of the fairy tale. The least pompous of the sons finds his feather land where he stands, and it is there that he finds what his father asks for. She concludes:

Very often we look God-knows-where for the solution of our problem and do not see that it is right before our noses. We are not humble enough to look downwards but stick our noses up in the air.[10]

That is indeed what the fairy tale tells us, but this message is present in the story as it is, without any depth psychology additions.

Preconscious Creation Myths

In spite of her express preference of fairy tales, Marie-Louise von Franz also wrote about myths. One of her books deals exclusively with creation myths. It is based on transcribed lectures of hers from 1961 and 1962, but was not published until ten years later.[11] An edition in German came in 1990, and a revised edition of the English book in 1995, with the title shortened to just Creation Myths.[12] The last edition is the one referred to in the following.

Her approach to creation myths is one of personal psychology. That would be a perfectly legitimate take on them, investigating what they might indicate about human thoughts and emotions on the topic, except for her claim that this is the true nature of those myths. In her eyes, they were never about the creation of the world. Instead, “they represent unconscious and preconscious processes which describe not the origin of our cosmos, but the origin of man’s conscious awareness of the world.”[13]

This is a strange statement, for two reasons. It suggests that creation myths would not come from speculations about the origin of the world and its creatures, although that is just what they describe, and furthermore it firmly states that the myths are not composed by conscious minds, but by unconscious and preconscious processes. She presents no evidence for it, nor does she define these concepts enough for putting them to the test.

Suffice to say that the creation myths around the world certainly give distinct impressions of being about what they profess to be about, and having been composed by minds consciously aware of what they were doing.

It is usually not difficult at all to follow their trains of thought. They make sense, particularly when considering the contexts in which the myths were formed, no matter how contradictory they are to what we now know about cosmology and the evolution of life on earth.

She explains it as a case of projection, quoting Jung’s definition of it as “the expulsion of a subjective content into an object.”[14] So, people have projected internal concerns onto the world as a whole. It is a very Jungian take, making it all about the personal psyche’s struggles. And von Franz doesn’t confine it to creation myths, but sees it as a general response to anything beyond our understanding, so that “wherever known reality stops, where we touch the unknown, there we project an archetypal image.”[15]

Since the archetypes emerge from the unconscious, which works independently of the conscious, so must the concepts they form — such as the creation myths. To von Franz, the unknown belongs to the unconscious:

Because the origin of nature and of human existence is a complete mystery to us, the unconscious has produced many models of this event.[16]

What she claims, then, is that the conscious is unable to deal with the unknown at all. It is obviously false.

We know what it is we don’t know. It intrigues us and sets our thoughts in motion — our conscious thoughts. We are aware of thinking about it, and of how we think about it. We come to conclusion, which we can trace back to our process of speculation.

Otherwise, if our conception had just been injected into our conscious from a hidden chamber of our mind, we would dismiss it. It has to make sense to our conscious, or it could not satisfy us. Therefore, it has to be reached involving a conscious effort.

The more important the subject is to us, the more necessary it is that we are familiar with how we reached a conclusion about it. And von Franz is certain, taking support from Jung, that creation myths deal with themes very essential to us. Doing so, she confirms the conscious thought process in this:

Despite the fact that we all know that the question of life after death, or of the origin and meaning of life, can never be answered rationally with any final certainty, according to Jung it is of tremendous importance, if not absolutely essential, that we try to form some idea about it. If a person has no myth about such questions, he is psychically dried up and impoverished and is likely to suffer from aneurosis.[17]

In other words, it is a conscious thought process, and a very important one at that. Accordingly, it is very clear to the conscious that what von Franz states about the role of the unconscious in it cannot be correct.

The Wording of Father Raven

After the introductory chapter, the first creation myth von Franz discusses is one that “shows more clearly than others how creation is an awakening toward consciousness.”[18] She has picked it from a Knud Rasmussen collection of Eskimo myths.

In this one, Rasmussen’s informant Apakak[19] tells the story of the primordial creature Father Raven, Tulungersaq, who according to this myth “created all life on earth and in human beings and is the origin of everything.”[20]

The long excerpt from this creation myth contains some anachronistic anomalies. Tulungersaq, crouching in the primordial darkness, suddenly “awoke to consciousness and discovered himself.”[21] That is a suspiciously Jungian wording for a traditional Eskimo myth. So is “a different psychological makeup” two pages down. The expressions "he sank into meditation,” “sat in meditation,” and “social contact” also seem out of place.[22]

The source used, according to von Franz, is an English translation of Rasmussen, The Eagle’s Gift, which was first published in 1932, but in a note to the excerpt she states instead that it is from the German version of that book, Die Gabe des Adlers, published in 1937. Considering that her mother tongue was German, it is more likely she used that one.

The question is where these anachronisms first appeared — in the English version, in the German one, or maybe she allowed herself some modifications in the quote. I have not been able to check those books, but some things can still be deducted.

The English version is the earliest, translated by Isobel Wylie Hutchison, who spoke Danish as well as several other languages. Normally, German translations of Scandinavian literature are done from those original texts and not from other translations. That would be expected of this book as well, though being of later date than the English one, were it not for the fact that the Danish original from 1929 has a different title, Festens Gave (The Gift of the Feast).[23] This indicates that the German translation, made by Aenne Schmücker, is based on the English one, and not on the Danish original.

Both translators had met and spent time with Rasmussen on Greenland, before he died in 1933 at the age of 54.

Rasmussen’s book gives this myth a title: “The Myth of the Beginning of All Life” (“Myten om alt Livs Begyndelse”). In his Danish text the wordings mentioned above are less questionable. Where von Franz has “awoke to consciousness and discovered himself” he wrote “pludselig kom til Bevidsthed og opdagede sig selv,” which strictly translates to almost the same: “suddenly came to consciousness and discovered himself.”

What it describes is not exactly an awakening, but a moment when Tulungersaq became aware of his own existence, akin to the famous Descartes statement “I think, therefore I am.” It is philosophical rather than psychological, and recognizable from what other creation myths say about a sole primordial being. Before this discovery, the primary deity is unable to act. So, the wording quoted in von Franz’s text is not wrong, as long as this is kept in mind.

With the next wording mentioned above, von Franz deviates considerably from Rasmussen. The original Danish version of “a different psychological makeup” is “et andet Sind,” which means “another mind” or “another mentality.” The term psychological is quite out of place in this context.

It has to be remarked that to the English word mind there is not a corresponding term in the Scandinavian languages with the exact same meaning. The word sind (sinn in Norwegian and sinne in Swedish) means something slightly different from mind — closer to the word mentality, or mindset. The text of the myth indicates this, when explaining the difference as “a hot, quick temper and a violent attitude.” So, it is about behavior. That could be described as a psychological makeup, but such a wording would indeed be anachronistic.

The English version also adds an “and,” which makes it even more misleading. In Rasmussen’s text, the character described doesn’t have a psychological makeup and a hot, quick temper, but a mindset expressed as those traits. The difference is significant. What Rasmussen’s wording indicates is not a mind with fixed attributes, but a mentality existing through the behavior. The mentality is the behavior.

That is a very old and wide-spread conception about character, expressed in myth and held as a central principle in dramaturgy. Character manifests through action. We are what we do. The myth shows it clearly by describing the activity of the character, leading to Tulungersaq’s conclusion about its mentality: from the moment it became alive, it “restlessly, constantly dug in the earth.” That is manic behavior. Tulungersaq had reason to worry.

The word “meditation” is in Rasmussen’s original simply “thought.” This is also the word used in the German version, von Franz informs us.[24] That is academically honorable, but it raises the question: Why, then, would she choose the more elaborate and specific term? The same can be said for her use of “social contact.” What Rasmussen wrote was “company” (Selskab).

There is another distinct deviation from Rasmussen’s text at the end of the von Franz excerpt. Where she finishes, “And so the first man came into being, and later Father Raven created all other beings,”[25] Rasmussen’s text lacks this sentence and instead goes on for a couple of pages describing additional creations. That part of the creation is summarily explained by von Franz, so she must have read the complete version.

There is nothing wrong with making such a summary, but she should not have included that last sentence in the quote, since it is not part of Apakak’s account.

The above remarks may be rather petty, but they indicate a problem often found in Jungian retelling of myths — the tendency to adjust them to fit Jungian theory. That calls for watchfulness. One thing important to adhere to, when interpreting myth, is that it has to begin with finding and staying true to the most accurate version of it. Otherwise, nothing trustworthy can be claimed about it.

Marie-Louis von Franz is well aware of it, saying that she tried to find the good translations and still she cannot guarantee the accuracy of “every nuance and every word in each myth.” But she continues by still allowing herself the freedom to interpret the material without concern for this uncertainty of it:

Because of this, I have planned to put my main emphasis and attention on certain similarities of motif and types of motif and not to go so much into the nuances of a single myth.[26]

There is no reason to be less particular about details when making generalized claims. Quite the opposite. Only by ascertaining the nuances of each myth is it possible to state something credible about how they compare. Uncertainties increase when added to one another.

As mentioned above, von Franz has selected a myth for the express purpose of proving her theory, which in itself weakens her argument substantially, and then she distorts the wording of the myth — albeit in a few details — to bring it closer to her understanding of it.

So, what is it she claims this myth to mean? She says it all in the first paragraph after retelling the story:

This is a beautiful story which shows that the mood of the awakening to a realization of reality is something like coming out of an unconscious state. That is projected onto Father Raven, who, as it were, slowly becomes conscious, and in the light of this consciousness reality simultaneously comes into existence.[27]

Father Raven came out of an unconscious state in the meaning of suddenly being conscious of himself, which should not be confused with the psychological concepts of the unconscious and the conscious. He became aware of existing and then started to explore where he was.

The myth states that heaven and earth had come into existence without the assistance of Father Raven, so he was not the sole creator of the whole world. He appeared after heaven and earth did. Already that circumstance creates an anomaly in von Franz’s theory. Part of “reality” was already there before Father Raven became conscious of it.

The notion of Father Raven as a projection of human steps towards consciousness is far-fetched, supported only by him coming into consciousness in the beginning — and that would be the end of it. Once he is conscious, the process is completed. The rest of the story is about his conscious actions.

He was conscious, though not yet enlightened about his role in the world: “all his deeds were completely casual until it became manifest to him who he was and what he should do.”[28] The word “manifest” is strange in a mythical tale. Rasmussen writes “revealed” (“åbenbaret”). Anyway, this passage does indeed suggest a process of self-discovery, but it is not an unconscious process.

In the primordial darkness, he used his hands to explore his surroundings of clay and nothing else, and then his own body. This made him realize that he was not stuck to what surrounded him, but a separate entity, so he started to crawl around to find out where he was.

It is an empathic story about what it must have felt like to be that primordial creature. Many creation myths have the same perspective in the initial stages, not only wondering who was there but also what it must have been like. The story can be explained without the claim that it is about something else.

The Egg

There are several other creation myths discussed in the book, sorted into categories according to the method of creation and the nature of the creators, such as accidental action, from above to below and the other way around, two creators, and Deus faber, the manufacturer of the world.[29] Other Jungian writers have also arranged creation myths according to categories, which are more or less alike.

With the plentitude of myths in the world, finding categories or other connections between them is bound to be easy. So, it is tempting to do but it runs the risk of simplifying the complexity of those myths and neglecting the many differences between them. It proves nothing if not the deviations from the norm are fairly and thoroughly examined, which is rarely the case.

The only way to do those myths justice is to investigate them one by one, and only thereafter search for patterns they may share.

What the volume of known creation myths suggests is that those patterns are not to be found in the means that were employed in the creation, but what reasoning led their authors to them. Before anything of significance can be said about what people of the distant past believed the creation was like, it is necessary to examine how they came to that conclusion. Then it is easy to follow the conscious reasoning behind it.

Instead, what is often done by von Franz, as well as many other writers on myth, is comparing fragments of myths, single details, to prove a pattern. But that takes the myths out of their own context. Everything and nothing can be proven that way. It is only by considering a myth as a whole that details in it can be correctly comprehended, and possibly compared to those of other myths.

One detail often discussed in writings about creation myths, also in von Franz’s book, is the primordial egg. It appears in many creation myths, although it does so in a variety of capacities. To von Franz, presenting a number of mythical examples of it, what it represents is the preconscious state:

The image of the golden germ, or the egg, is perhaps not so difficult to understand psychologically as some of the other images, because we can easily recognize in it the motif of the preconscious totality. It is psychic wholeness conceived as the thing which came before the rise of ego consciousness, or any kind of dividing consciousness.[30]

That’s not what first comes to mind when an egg is found in a creation myth. What is easily recognizable is not the motif of a preconscious totality, but the simple fact that the egg is an obvious example of how a complete living creature can come out of a simple single object. It is an obvious parallel to the whole world growing out of one basic primordial state.

This miracle of nature must have inspired ancient speculations about the world origin, searching for explanations.

The symbolic relevance of the egg is still true today. The big bang theory begins with a minimal point in which the whole universe is comprised, before the birth of it in a mighty expansion, which is still going on. Out of a minimal something — everything.

The use of the egg in creation myths is in itself perfectly analogous to the emergence of the world. The conscious reasoning behind it is plain to see. What von Franz wants to add to its significance is superfluous, even irrelevant.

[1] Kirsch 2000, p. 11.

[2] Ibid., p. 12.

[3] The Centre’s website gives no information about a previous name change (centre-dp.org). Presumably, that came after the death of von Franz.

[4] Marie-Louise von Franz, C. G. Jung: His Myth in Our Time, transl. William H. Kennedy, New York 1975 (originally published in German 1972).

[5] Marie-Louise von Franz,An Introduction to the Interpretation of Fairy Tales, New York 1970, I p. 1. She states the same on I p. 11.

[6] Ibid., I p. 2.

[7] Jacob & Wilhelm Grimm, Kinder und Hausmärchen, vol. I, Göttingen 1857, pp. 344ff.

[8] von Franz 1970, IV p. 5.

[9] Ibid., IV pp. 16f.

[10] Ibid., IV p. 17.

[11] Marie-Louise von Franz,Patterns of Creativity Mirrored in Creation Myths, Zurich 1972.

[12] Marie-Louise von Franz, Creation Myths, Boston 1995.

[13] Ibid., p. 5.

[14] Ibid., p. 3.

[15] Ibid., p. 2.

[16] Ibid., p. 1.

[17] Ibid., p. 11.

[18] Ibid., p. 24.

[19] Spelled Apatac by von Franz. Ibid., p. 28.

[20] Ibid., p. 29.

[21] Ibid.

[22] Ibid., p. 30.

[23] Knud Rasmussen, Festens gave: Eskimoiske Alaska-Æventyr, Copenhagen 1929.

[24] von Franz 1995, p. 34.

[25] Ibid., p. 32.

[26] Ibid., p. 26.

[27] Ibid., pp. 33f.

[28] Ibid., p. 29.

[29] Ibid., p. 25.

[30] Ibid., p. 229.

Jungians on Myth and Religion

This text is an excerpt from my book Archetypes of Mythology: Jungian Theories on Myth and Religion Examined from 2022. The excerpt was published on this website in January, 2023.

BOOKS	ART	MYTH	PHILOSOPHERS

AIKIDO	BATTO	REVIEWS	SPECULATIONS