Dying

Start with the killing that is aimed at you. James Hall, working strictly within the dream, refuses to read aggression against the dreamer as simple threat. An attacking figure, he writes, “could be seen as wanting a more aggressive response from the dream-ego”; in one case a sinister woman hurls a trident, and the dreamer realizes “the sinister woman has thereby given him a weapon to oppose her with” — and with it frees “a number of ‘dead’ animals that return to life” (Hall, Jungian Dream Interpretation, 1983). The violence is in the service of something larger. “Action in a dream may seem to oppose the dream-ego while its true purpose is to enlarge or transform the ego in relation to the Self.” Being killed, in this reading, is not the end of you. It is pressure on the version of you currently in charge.

The alchemists gave that pressure a name and an entire grammar. Edward Edinger calls it the mortificatio — literally “killing,” “the most negative operation in alchemy,” bound up with “darkness, defeat, torture, mutilation, death, and rotting” (Edinger, Anatomy of the Psyche, 1985). What gets killed is never random. It is the king, the sun, the lion — “the ruling principle of the conscious ego.” And the death of the king is precisely a catastrophe: “Regicide is the gravest of crimes. Psychologically it would signify the death of the ruling principle of consciousness.” Yet Edinger insists these “dark images often lead over to highly positive ones — growth, resurrection, rebirth.” Quoting the alchemical sages: “For putrefaction precedes the generation of every new form into existence.” The thing must rot before anything new can grow from it.

Stanton Marlan extends the gallery of how the old self is put to death, and it reads like a catalogue of nightmare. The figure to be transformed is “an old king, a dragon, a toad, or the sun in the process of being wounded or killed by club, sword, or poison; drowned; or devoured” (Marlan, The Black Sun, 2005). Marlan presses the point past comfort: the psyche’s aim “may not be to protect the ego from reexperiencing trauma but rather to push it toward the feared unthinkable — to the core of its voidness.” He records the analyst David Rosen’s word for it — egocide — a “symbolic death” that “leads to a… greater fall, which actually feels like death.” James Hillman is blunter still about the labor involved: “The life of the material must be wholly and fully mortified, that is, killed dead. All usual responses no longer effective, not even as possibilities” (Hillman, Alchemical Psychology, 2010). The dream that kills you is doing this work — closing the old exits so a new one can open.

Hillman had already devoted an entire book to this kind of dying, and in it he refuses even the consolation Hall leaves standing. If the attacking figure wants “a more aggressive response,” the transaction still ends with a stronger ego — and that is precisely the reading Hillman will not allow. “The dream is not compensation but initiation,” he writes. “It does not complete ego-consciousness, but voids it” (Hillman, The Dream and the Underworld, 1979). The dream of dying is not a corrective sent up to improve the daylight personality; it is a nightly induction into another way of seeing, the underworld grasped not as scenery but as “a perspective within the image by means of which our consciousness enters or is initiated into the underworld viewpoint.” From that viewpoint the violence is not an obstacle to the image but its method: “Destruction, cruelty, wounding, failure, rape of the natural, even all unnatural events in dreams, may be approached through this dark light,” because the dream, “by bringing an image close to death, concurrently makes it live again.” His evidence reaches to the literal deathbed. “In dreams of medically terminal patients, those upon whom the physician has prophesied death, the psyche seems to refuse breaking itself apart into opposites of life and death… It makes no distinction between killing and curing, poison and medicine, dying and giving birth.” Where the waking mind insists on the binary, the dream declines it. “The dream is no more a compensation than is Hades a region balanced by another one.”

The Greeks heard the same doubleness, and they heard it most clearly in the strange softness of how they spoke of death. Emily Vermeule finds that in Homer “the Greeks, significantly, had no word for irreversible death; one does not die, one darkens” (Vermeule, Aspects of Death in Early Greek Art and Poetry, 1979). Thanatos, in her reading, “is no more a killer than Hades”; he is “a physical veil, a cloud between the man and the light, a private fragment of night for creatures of the day, a miniature Hades.” Even in the underworld there is “always the hope of the little interior light of intelligence, which may never go completely out inside the psyche, but waits to be roused.” Death is a darkening, not an erasure — a state from which the psyche can be “recalled by grief, love, magic or poetry.” Jan Bremmer confirms the mechanics: at death “the psyche leaves the body,” and the dead soul “looked like the living being,” an eidolon, a recognizable image that persists (Bremmer, The Early Greek Concept of the Soul, 1983). And Walter Burkert reminds us the dead were never simply gone — on the days of the dead “it is said that the dead come up and go about in the city,” fed by libations that “seep into the earth,” so that “from the remembrance of the dead grows the will to continue” (Burkert, Greek Religion, 1977). The killed thing keeps a face. It can be called back.

But not every dream of being killed is a sacrament, and the tradition is honest about this. Sometimes the dying is pure terror with no rebirth attached. Philip Bromberg, writing from inside trauma, describes the threat the body cannot metabolize — “an overwhelming threat to the integrity of the self that is accompanied by annihilation anxiety,” a flooding “that threatens to overwhelm sanity and psychological survival” (Bromberg, Standing in the Spaces, 1998). The mind’s last defense, when “there is no escape,” is dissociation — “the escape when there is no escape,” the cutting-off that lets a person “survive by preserving the dissociated ‘predator’ experience in its pure form of deadly assault.” A dream of being murdered, replayed without transformation, may not be the psyche killing its king. It may be a wound still circling an event it could never finish.

So the question is not whether death “means change.” It is which death this is. Is something obsolete being mortified — a ruling principle that has, in Edinger’s phrase, “lost its effectiveness” and “regressed to the level of the primordial psyche”? Or is this the body reliving an annihilation it never got to survive? The first asks to be undergone; the second asks to be witnessed and brought back into time. The dream of dying holds its hand open between the two — the nigredo that precedes the green, and the dark that is only dark. Nor is the first kind ever finished. “Literalizations that kill the flow and bury the soul always need dissolving,” Hillman warns; “at the same time what is dissolved always finds new earthworks to stop flow. This is an ever recurring process, as in alchemy, describing a cycle of soul-making.” The king is rebuilt, and the dream comes back for him. Beneath every return runs what Hillman names “the call to Hades” — “the sense of purpose that enters whenever we talk about soul. What does it want?” — the pull toward “the one absolutely sure event of the human condition.” Either way the image is not telling you that you are ending. It is asking what in you has outlived its reign, and whether you can let it be killed so the rest of you can come back up into the light.