Jung is writing a funeral address, which means the pressure to console is nearly irresistible — and he does not entirely resist it. The move he makes, transforming death into "a ripe fruit on the tree of life," belongs to a very old logic: if I understand suffering deeply enough, it will not wound me. Depth itself becomes the anesthetic. The soul penetrated, the mysterious life discerned — and then, having done that work, we are somehow insulated from the brutality of the fact. It is worth pausing on that, because it is not nothing.

What is true in the passage is that death is not accidental to a life — it has been, as Jung says, "unconsciously lived and worked for." That is a serious claim, not a comfort. It means the whole shape of a person's existence has been orienting itself toward something the ego did not choose and did not want. The life was not heading somewhere else and then interrupted; the interruption was the destination. Hold that and the "ripe fruit" image shifts register entirely — not consolation, but recognition of an intelligence the ego played no conscious part in. Whether that recognition helps anyone standing at a graveside is another question, and Jung's text, to its credit, does not fully answer it.