"In us all." I went back a little way in the discussion. "When I was a young guy, I formed the habit of listening to, and looking at, everything that happened in my mind. Ruling out nothing. Trying to relate everything to everything else. That's a good habit. That's the natural mind. There are too God-damned many prohibitions and taboos in the life of a Presbyterian minister's son to keep track of. So I started--as a game--ignoring all of them, in my head. Plenty of people do. I arrived--in that poem--at a pretty complete formulation of instinct and the laws of instinct--as Jung sees it working. As Toynbee sees it working collectively, on civilizations. As Northrop glimpses it. As Jesus tried to define it. As Aristotle didn't even guess it." "So you think you really never underwent a philosophical change?" "No. I lost sight of what I'd felt--when I was a dizzy, drunk Hollywood writer. But when Archie taught me Freud and Jung--I got back the insight--in contemporary terms and scientific formulations. That's all. And it isn't very much." "Are you ever frightened?" "I'm protoplasm, for God's sake!" He chuckled. "That's a relief! I've wondered what are you scared of. Sometimes--you seem haunted. Most of the time, I could swear you were afraid of nothing." "The shadow of the ego--the black streak behind it that it never looks around to see." "And what does that mean?" "What I'm scared of. Inhumanity. Cruelty. To man--to me, also, I guess.'' "People get more humane." "Like hell!" "If you lived a thousand years ago--or ten thousand you'd believe it. The trouble is, you're supersensitive." I took a long breath.