Freud, Adler and Jung—these names personify, above all others,
modern man's restless exploration of his own mind, his struggles for
self-knowledge and for control of his darkest drives. In the 20th century,
impelled by the detailed theory and dogma of the Big Three, psychology has
burst out of consulting room and clinic, spreading all through life and leaving
nothing untouched—neither love nor the machine, war nor politics, neither art
nor morals nor God. Of the three pioneers who built this Age of Psychology,
Freud and Adler are dead. The third, Carl Gustav Jung, is still at 79
tirelessly adventuring through the vast reaches of the psyche. Last week,
wreathed by pipe smoke that swirled through his thinning white hair and gave
him the aspect of a medieval alchemist, Jung was busy in the study of his
old-fashioned, high-ceilinged house at Küsnacht on Lake Zurich. The
three-volume work on which he was dotting the last "i" seemed strange
for a modern psychiatrist: Representation of the Problems of Opposites in
Medieval Natural Philosophy. "Pretty abstruse, huh?" said Jung to a
visitor. Then laughter rocked his heavy shoulders. "I must laugh! I have
such a hell of a trouble to make people see what I mean."
For a man who has added such words as introvert, extravert and
complex (in its psychological meaning) to the party patter of millions, Jung
has indeed great difficulty in making people see what he means. That is partly
because he has explored yoga, alchemy, fairy tales, the tribal rites of the
Pueblo Indians, German romantic philosophers, Zen Buddhism, extrasensory
perception and the cave drawings of prehistoric man, along with an estimated
100,000 dreams. But when Dr. Jung is accused of having left medicine for
mysticism, he replies that psychiatry must take into account all of man's
experience, from the most intensely practical to the most tenuously mystical.
If the details of his work are sometimes foggy, his overall
purpose is clear: to help man live at peace with his unconscious. That is the
aim also of the other "depth psychologists," but Jung significantly
differs from the others. He is a constant challenge to the legacy of his old
master, Sigmund Freud, whose teachings have affected man's view of himself more
deeply than anything since Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection.
The Freudian View. Through most of the Christian era, the healing
of the mind was considered part of the realm of the soul. The Enlightenment
abolished the soul. Its place was taken, in the minds of millions, by reason,
which stood atop a quaking pile of instincts. When Freud was a young man,
scientific inquiry and materialism ruled even in psychiatry. Research was aimed
at finding physiological causes for psychic effects. Freud's great contribution
was his discovery of the unconscious mind, the source of human drives that did
not fit into this narrow system. But Freud still clung to the mechanical and
material scientism of his age. He constructed a new, detailed, machinelike
scheme of the mind. The steam that made the machine run was sexual energy or
libido. In Freud's view, the unconscious was cluttered with emotional material,
commonly thought of as forgotten but actually repressed because of a conflict
between sex-powered drives and personal or social standards of what is
acceptable. Freud concluded that to rid patients of their neuroses, he had to
dredge up the repressed material and expose it to the cleansing processes of
the conscious mind. The Freudian concept of libido was eventually broadened to
include love, friendship, even devotion to abstract ideas. But Freud narrowly
insisted that the infantile parricide-and incest wish which he called the
Oedipus Complex was crucially important in all human beings. As Jung bitingly
put it: "The brain is viewed as an appendage of the genital glands."
Vienna's Alfred Adler, an early disciple of Freud, soon rejected
this sex-is- everything view, and formulated his theory that human beings are
propelled more by drives for power because of inherent feelings of inferiority.
But in the Freudian world, the human being stands alone, without a will to make
free moral choices, conditioned by mysterious urges and traumas over which he
has no control. Creative work, good deeds, ambition are only "sublimation."
Religion is usually a form of neurosis; God is a projection of the Father
image. It is against this view of life, this "psychology without a
psyche." that Jung protests in all his work.
The Jungian Answer. Man's unconscious, argues Jung, is not merely
a trash basket for disagreeable experiences thrown away by the conscious mind,
but a vast subterranean storehouse full of both good and evil. For the most
part the eternal human affections, aspirations and fears are just what they
seem to be. Religion is not a neurosis, in Jung's view; it is a deeply and
universally felt human need. Jung concedes great merit to Freud, believes his
methods work with some patients, notably younger ones with real sexual
problems. But, says Jung, both Freud and Adler say to everything. " 'You
are nothing but . . .' They explain to the sufferer that his symptoms come from
here or there and are 'nothing but' this or that . . . Sexuality, it is true,
is always and everywhere present; the instinct for power certainly does
penetrate the heights and the depths of the soul; but the soul itself is not
solely either the one or the other, or even both together ... A person is only
half understood when one knows how everything in him came about. Only a dead
man can be explained in terms of the past . . . Life is not made up of
yesterdays only . . ." Jung's
view is gaining increasing respect among intellectuals, clergyman, ordinary
laymen. It is also reflected among analysts.* Most analysts are dedicated
Freudians who run their profession as a kind of closed shop and dismiss Jung as
an escapist from life's harsh realities. But there is a constant splintering:
besides the Jungians and Adlerians. There is a whole spectrum of
deviationists—followers of Karen Horney, Otto Rank, Erich Fromm, Harry Stack Sullivan,
Franz Alexander, Melanie Klein. There are also more and more eclectics who
derive most of their theory from Freud but add a little of Jung or Adler or a
dash of Horney and Sullivan. Many of them nowadays admit that Freudian analysis
may have been too narrowly based on sexual drives, and that other matters—even
religion—ought perhaps to be considered. Writes Milton Sapirstein, an analyst
of the Freudian school: "More and more, psychiatrists seem prepared to
accept the dependencies of religion, social causes and group movements as
healthy and needful, without labeling them 'sublimated homosexuality' to a
father figure, or a desire to return to the mother's womb."
Freud was the Columbus who discovered the hemisphere of the
unconscious. Jung may well be the Magellan to circumscribe the whole sphere of
the psyche.
Double Unconscious. In the Jungian hypothesis, the mind has three
layers: 1) the conscious, which is just about what everybody thinks it is; 2)
the personal unconscious (corresponding, but only approximately, to Freud's
unconscious), into which go forgotten facts and repressed emotional material;
and 3) the collective unconscious, which is part of the heritage of the entire
human race, and therefore a sort of common pool containing the instincts and
some patterns for mental behavior.
What drives the psychic machine? Libido, says Jung, but he uses
the word differently from Freud: Jung's libido includes all psychic energy. It
can flow, says Jung, in either of two directions, in either of two dimensions.
When it is flowing forward, from the unconscious to the conscious, a man feels
that life is running smoothly as he goes about his business. Psychic energy
must also flow in reverse, from the conscious to the unconscious, as when a man
relaxes from an active to a pensive or dreamy state. But if this backward flow
lasts too long, the libido is being attracted to something in the unconscious
that is stirring toward consciousness. If this is not made conscious, it will
attract around it similar material which then forms a knot or complex. Psychic
energy may also flow inward or outward. If in an individual it usually goes
outward, he is an extravert. When he perceives an object or situation, his
first reaction is to project his energy onto the object and away from himself.
But if it flows inward, he is an introvert, and his first reaction is along the
lines of "What will this do to me?" Jung then breaks down personality
types into four classes, depending on which of the major psychic functions they
rely on most heavily: sensation, thinking, feeling or intuition. Since anybody
can be either extraverted or introverted in combination with any of the four
main functions, Jung recognizes eight basic personality types. But he has said
repeatedly —unfortunately for the thick-tongued dogmatism of cocktail-party
conversation —that everybody is enough of a mixture so that the labels are only
a rough guide. In fact, there are some rare souls who defy classification at
all.
Archetypes for All. Things are not so simple in the Jungian
unconscious. There, Jung sees a host of symbols which represent the archetypes.
In writing of them, Jung, who has a vivid style and imagination, sometimes
sounds almost as if he were writing about living beings. But the Jung
archetypes are simply ancient patterns of human experience and feeling,
repeated over and over in all ages and cultures. They occur in two principal
forms: 1) in individual thoughts, dreams and visions; 2) projected as myths,
customs or faiths. When Jung started out as a practicing analyst, he found
again and again that ancient symbols and rituals were repeated in the dreams of
20th century patients who could not possibly have heard or read of them. He
concluded that mankind's collective unconscious 1) far predates the evolution
of the conscious part of the mind, and 2) forms the same basic patterns
repeatedly. In each individual, of course, the patterns are differently
arranged. (Jung compares this to the body, which is composed of the same organs
in all human beings, but with significant individual variations.) Usually
classified as the most obvious archetype — although it belongs largely to the
conscious — is the persona. This was the Roman actor's word for the mask he
wore to indicate his assumed character, and Jung uses it in much the same
sense: the face which each individual presents to his surroundings. It involves
a certain amount of necessary and healthy play acting, easing the relations
between a man's inner world and the world around him. The persona is injurious
only when it dominates the true personality beneath.
One danger then is that the persona will blind a man to the
existence of his own shadow. This shadow, part of the personal unconscious, is
the Mr. Hyde in every Dr. Jekyll, the inferior or evil element that wants to do
what the conscious or the conscience forbids. It is necessary to control the
shadow, but there is danger: the more firmly it is stamped upon, the greater
the force with which it will eventually erupt.
Anima, Earth-Mother & Self. Deeper in the collective
unconscious, Jung sees the anima, an embodiment of the "female
principle" in man. By this Jung means all the traits in man conventionally
considered female, e.g., gentleness and appreciation of the finer things, but
also pettiness and rage. More importantly, the anima also enables man to
"apprehend the nature of women" — it is the unconscious image of what
a woman ought to be. This may range from Helen of Troy to Rider Haggard's She
to the 20-yearold red-haired actress with whom an elderly university professor
runs off. The anima, explains a Jung disciple, "has at tributes that
appear and reappear through the ages . . .She always looks young, though there
is often a suggestion of years of experience . . .She is wise, but not
formidably so; it is rather that 'something strangely meaningful — something
like secret knowledge . . . clings to her.' " When this image is projected
on a flesh-and-blood woman, a man falls in love, but trouble arises when she
fails to fit his unconscious prefab design.
Corresponding to the anima in the female is the animus, the
embodiment of all male characteristics in a woman, and her collective,
inherited image of man.
Next most important
among the archetypes are the old wise man and the earth-mother. The old wise
man may appear in dreams or fantasies as a king or hero, medicine man, magician
or savior (to Dr. Jung's patients, he often appears as Dr. Jung). A little of
this, Jung holds, is good: every man has in him the seeds of greatness; and it
is well for him to be aware of it. But a man abnormally receptive to the idea
may turn into the leader of a wild-eyed revivalist sect, with messianic
delusions, or a Hitler, or simply a madhouse Napoleon.
The corresponding feminine archetype is the earth-mother—the very
source of life. But if a woman becomes "inflated" with the idea, and
sees herself endowed with an unmatched capacity for understanding the problems
of others, she may become a super-do-gooder, or tighten her circle of mothering
influence until it strangles the objects of her devotion.
Finally, towering over a host of lesser archetypes, is the
transcendent Self. This embodies elements from both conscious and unconscious,
from all the archetypes, good and evil. It is a symbol of oneness such as is
found in many religions, e.g., the Hindu atman. Jung's concept of the Self
leads into the all-important process which he calls individuation. This is the
sort of wholeness which Jung found many of his patients pursuing unconsciously
after they had actually been cured of neurosis. Individuation may be a lifetime
task ("Usually the analyst dies before the patient," says one Jungian
analyst). By getting to know more and more aspects of his unconscious, the
subject can give proper values to what were once half-sensed and disturbing urges.
Individuation is "finding the God within."
The Need for Symbols. In this process, symbols help. One which
particularly fascinates Jung is the mandala,** a square and-wheel pattern
embodying the number four or a multiple of it. A precious stone, often equated
with the philosopher's stone of the alchemists, can symbolize the Self. The
interlaced, banyan-like Tree of Life is often seen to bear a single luminous
blossom—perhaps the Orient's Golden Flower, or a Christmas-tree star—which
signifies the way of life that is life itself. What place have such symbols in
modern psychology? Says Jung: they are facts. They appear day after day in the
dreams and doodlings of patients. If, for instance, a patient dreams of a snake
held skyward, a Freudian analyst will automatically call it a phallic symbol.
Jung concedes that it may mean that. But it is also a fact that the serpent has
a much broader significance. For instance, to the Ophite Gnostics (2nd century
A.D.) the serpent symbolized the redeeming principle of the world. It can
stand, says Jung, for the recognition of the shadow side of life, the bringing
out of evil into the open. Argues Jung: Why not test the hypothesis that it may
represent the same urge in a modern patient? Moreover, says Jung, patients who
are often shocked by the appearance of such symbols in their minds, fearing
them to be signs of near insanity, are reassured when they find that they are
only repeating ancient human patterns.
In a religious age, according to Jung, man would not need to get
consciously acquainted with his archetypes, because religion provides its own
symbols. But Christianity has become so weakened in this respect — largely
through the Protestant Reformation, says Protestant Jung —that to millions its
symbols now mean nothing. For this reason, says Jung, Roman Catholicism is
generally more effective today than other churches, and he rarely finds
Catholics in need of individuation. Says Jung: "[Catholicism] is a
full-fledged religion. Protestantism is not. Religions consist of a doctrine
and a rite. The ritual does not exist in Protestantism : it has only one leg to
stand on — justification through faith alone. The Catholic Church has the rite
too, with all its magic effects." Jung himself has not been to church for
years, but when asked if he believes in God, he says: "I could not say I
believe. I know! I have had the experience of being gripped by something that
is stronger than myself, something that people call God." Unconsciously at
least, says Jung, many a modern man seeks the comfort and security of religious
symbols. That is why many try to import strange Eastern religions ; others turn
to demagogues and isms (which Jung regards as volcanic eruptions of the
unconscious), and still others go to the analyst. "Our heart glows, and
secret unrest gnaws at the roots of our being . . . Dealing with the
unconscious has become a question of life for us." Hence the man who
cannot find religious symbols must be helped by the analyst to understand the
symbols in his own unconscious. "I have treated many hundreds of patients
. . . Among [those] in the second half of life — that is to say, over 35 —
there has not been one whose problem in the last resort was not that of finding
a religious outlook on life . . ."
Dream of a Hayride. The practical differences between the methods
of Freud and Jung show up clearly in the case of a successful businessman who
went to a Jungian analyst for help. At 51 he had developed a phobia against
train or air trips, expressed in uncontrollable anxiety and attacks of
giddiness. Despite the patient's age, the orthodox Freudian psychoanalyst would
have set him on a couch and invited him to talk on in "free
association," especially about his earliest childhood. Purpose: to find
either a specific shock related to his giddiness, or some emotional repressed
stress. The Jungian analyst uses no couch, but has the patient seated in a
chair and facing him. This setup represents a meeting of equals: unlike Freud,
who wanted the analyst to keep in the background, Jung believes the doctor must
fully share the emotional experience of analysis. The Jungian analyst is
concerned primarily with the present and the future. This businessman had
carried too heavy a load of work for years. Now, from his unconscious, come
symptoms which force him to cut down his activities. Unconsciously, he must
want to slow down. To help the analyst find possible unconscious motives, the
businessman is asked to talk about his work and travel (this is not free
association, which, Jung argues, tends to lead away from the focus of
interest). After several sessions the businessman tells of a dream: "I am
sitting on a large wagon, laden with hay, which I am driving back to the barn,
but the load of hay is so high that the lintel of the door into the barn knocks
me on the head, so that I fall off my seat and I wake up terrified in the act
of falling." For the Freudian, the barn is a symbol of the female
genitalia; the dream represents a tendency to return to the womb, but because
this has undertones of incestuous desire, it would be followed by punishment
(castration). An Adlerian would interpret the overloaded wagon as an
exaggerated will to power, in compensation for an inferiority complex. The
Jungian analyst takes the dream more literally. After examining and reexamining
it in the context of the patient's life (Jung distrusts all set dream
theories), the analyst suggests this meaning: the patient has overloaded his
wagon beyond its capacity; as a result, his conscious intentions receive a
blow. The dream is an attempt by the unconscious to redress the balance of an
exaggerated extraverted attitude which is becoming less and less appropriate as
the businessman grows older. This interpretation denies the patient the easy
Freudian way out—a childhood trauma to use as a scapegoat. He faces the
responsibility of revising his goals in life. In this case, the businessman
realized that he had lived a one-sided life. Not only did he slow down, but he
was satisfied to do so—and could take trips without anxiety or giddiness.
Jungians often say that after a patient has been cured of a
neurosis in Freudian analysis, his "soul has been sterilized." Says
Jung: "The neurosis contains the soul of the sick person, or at least a
considerable part of it, and if the neurosis could be taken out like a decayed
tooth, in the rationalistic way, then the patient would have gained nothing and
lost something very important, much as a thinker who loses his doubt of the
truth of his conclusions, or a moral man who loses his temptations . . . The
individual [must] choose his own way consciously and with conscious moral
decision."
Fathers & Sons. One of modern man's troubles, according to
Jung, is that he has lost touch with his roots. Americans, for instance, he
thinks are not yet at home in their unconscious on a continent wrested so
recently from nature; this produces tension and helps account for America's
go-getting energy. Carl Jung himself is not troubled by lack of roots. He comes
from a long line of pastors of the Swiss Reformed Church. Though he has
traveled all over the world, from India (where he lectured) to Kenya (where he
lived with a primitive tribe near Mount Elgon), Jung's home is the same house
he and his wife Emma built in 1908. He had a lonely boyhood in Basel, started
to learn Latin at six, and grew into what he was later to classify as "an
introvert type with the dominant function of thinking." His first ambition
was to become an archaeologist or paleontologist. "He's still thrilled at
news of an excavation," says a disciple. "But we carry history inside
us, too, and he's dug it up there." Largely to please his father, Jung
chose medicine. He soon became fascinated with psychiatry. In 1900, newly
graduated Dr. Jung went to Zurich as an assistant in the famed old university
mental clinic. After he discovered the writings of Freud, Jung devised
word-association tests which were hailed as proof of Freud's basic theory of repression.
Jung and his chief, Dr. Eugen Bleuler, gave Freudian theories a longed-for
accolade of respectability through the prestigious Zurich clinic. In 1907 Jung
went to Vienna to spend two weeks with the master. "The first day we
talked for 13 hours," he recalls. "We talked about everything. But I
could not swallow his so-called science positivism, his merely rational view of
the psyche and his materialistic point of view." Later, crossing the
Atlantic together on their way to give addresses at Clark University in
Worcester. Mass., Freud and Jung debated endlessly on psychological problems
and analyzed each other's dreams. Freud cast Jung in the role of his
intellectual son and heir. But the halcyon days were over. At Munich in 1912,
Freud upbraided Jung for writing about psychoanalysis without mentioning the
founder's name. The talk turned to Egypt's King Amenhotep IV as founder of a
religion. "He is the one who scratched out his father's name on the
monuments," said Freud. "Yes." Jung
replied, "but with
that you cannot dismiss Amenhotep. He was the first monotheist among the
Egyptians. He was a great genius, very human, very individual. That he
scratched out his father's name is not the main thing at all." Whereupon
Freud fainted dead away. Jung's explanation: "Indirectly, he was
continuing his reproach that I had scratched out the father's name—that is, his
name."
When Jung denied the predominantly sexual nature of the libido,
Freud saw it as open rebellion. By 1913 the break was final: Jung wrote Freud
"that I could do no further work with him if he would not give up that
dogmatic attitude." Said Freud: "We took leave from one another
without feeling the need to meet again!"
The Alchemist. One of the most controversial issues about
Jung—outside psychiatry—concerns Nazi Germany. Some of his writings about race
have been abused by others for racist propaganda. Chiefly because he held the
editorship of a German psychoanalytic journal during the Nazi regime (his
co-editor at one time was a relative of Hermann Göring), Jung has sometimes
been accused of Nazi sympathies. Jung's position: as a foreigner of renown, he
merely took the job to safeguard what he could of German psychiatry. Since the
war, Jung has lived by the banks of Lake Zurich, treating a few patients and
keeping a keen eye on the most difficult patient of all—the world at large. He
has never stopped writing, revising his concepts, or enlarging the scope of his
inquiries. He has explored medieval alchemy, not because he has any interest in
its pseudo-chemical aspects, but because he considers it interesting
psychologically: for the most part, he sees the alchemists as seekers after
original religious experience outside the permissible limits of the medieval
church.
The majority of Jung's patients have been women, and he has had
some down-to-earth things to say about the status of woman in the modern world.
She has, he thinks, lost the old ideal of marriage ("He shall be thy
master"). The tradition that it is the man who generally breaks up a
marriage is no longer true: "Today life makes such demands on man that the
noble hidalgo Don Juan is to be seen nowhere save in the theater. More than
ever, man loves his comfort . . . There is no longer a surplus of energy for
window-climbing and duellos." Woman, meanwhile, will go to greater lengths
than ever to find a husband, "by that quiet and obstinate wish that works
. . . magically, like the fixed eye of the snake." As men and women adopt
more of the roles and interests traditionally attributed to the other sex, Jung
thinks a new relationship between them is developing, based on equal
partnership.
Most recently, in Answer to Job (just published in England, not
yet in the U.S.), he suddenly tackled the 1950 papal proclamation of the dogma
of the Assumption of the Virgin, which he considers the greatest religious
event since the Reformation. His explanation of the dogma: it was, he contends,
historically and psychologically necessary, because the mass of Roman Catholic
women (at least unconsciously) demanded it, to give them a symbol of
identification in heaven.
Freudian Doubts. How big is Jung's influence today? The Freudians,
confident that they are the possessors of revealed psychiatric truth, have
crusaded for their own dogma and sought converts with evangelical zeal. Jung,
by contrast, for a long time would not even bother to set up a formal training
school for analysts who wanted to follow him, and he still refuses to seek
converts. Proselytizing, in his book, is merely a reflection of unconscious
doubts. Not until 1948 was a C. G. Jung Institute established in Zurich, and
Jung has given it little more support than his name. It now has about 100
students from
14 countries, including
the U.S., Denmark, India. London, New York. San Francisco and Los Angeles are
the next major centers of Jungian influence; in each there is a handful of
analysts trained by Jung himself or his earliest disciples. San Francisco has a
small training institute, and one is being set up in Los Angeles. The Bollingen
Foundation is currently bringing out his collected works (four volumes
published, 14 to go).
Jung's influence in psychiatric practice, though often
unacknowledged, has been conceded by the late A. A. Brill, leading U.S.
Freudian, who called him "the pioneer psychoanalyst in psychiatry."
Freud thought that analysis was useful only in the milder forms of emotional
illness (neurosis). Jung was among the first to use it to interpret
schizophrenia, commonest of the most serious psychoses (which fills 300,000
hospital beds in the U.S.). Results of early treatment by analysis were only
tentative. But then came insulin and metrazol, and now, in the last two years,
have come two new drugs, chlorpromazine and reserpine, which are making
thousands of supposedly hopeless cases of schizophrenia accessible to analytic
techniques.
The Natural Face. The ultimate value of Jung's ideas cannot yet be
measured by practical standards. His great achievement is that he has shown
psychology a new direction: he has constructed a psychology for human beings
who reach out toward the unknown, the intangible, the spiritual. He has
attacked the goal of psychological adjustment, which is fine "for the
unsuccessful, for all those who have not yet found an adaptation," but
which for others means only "restriction to the bed of Procrustes,
unbearable boredom, infernal sterility, and hopelessness." Even if he is
only half right, Jung has suggested to mankind a way of adjustment" not
merely to his animal instincts and social pressures but to his great paradoxes
and his eternal religious needs. Living happily in his old house, surrounded by
19 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren, the old man seems to many of his
followers the most convincing case history in support of Jungian theories. Has
Jung himself achieved individuation? Says he: "Individuation means to
become what one is really meant to be. In Zen Buddhism they have a saying:
'Show your natural face.' I think I have shown my natural face, often to the
bewilderment of my time. Yes, I've attained individuation—thank heavens!
Otherwise I would be very neurotic, you know."
Freud and his followers have always insisted that the name
"psychoanalysis" belongs properly only to their theory and method.
Adler called his "individual psychology"; Jung's is "analytical
psychology."
The mandala, meaning magic circle in Sanskrit, is most familiar as
an aid to contemplation among Buddhist and other Oriental sects. A medieval
Christian mandala shows Christ at the center, with the four evangelists at the
cardinal points. Said he: "I cannot let myself be stared at for eight
hours daily." Once a Zurich analyst had to deal with a new patient so
tense that it seemed she had no mere neurosis but a beginning psychosis.
Alarmed—because analysis at this stage may touch off a psychotic crisis the
analyst went to Jung for advice. The master listened to the symptoms, then
asked: "American? From the Middle West?" The analyst nodded. "Well then, I think
you're pretty safe," said Jung, "but I would worry if it were a
European."
Set up by his U.S.
admirer Paul Mellon of the Pittsburgh Mellons, and named for the little town of
Bollingen.
Photo Credit: Time Magazine
