Texts are not written or read in a cultural vacuum. Their ability to signify derives from and is defined by their relations to the whole corpus of pre-existing literature. Texts therefore cannot be straightforward, self-contained vehicles of their authors' intended meanings, but must be read through and within a complex cultural matrix. These are truths universally acknowledged, and the cluster of ideas that they represent is conveniently termed intertextuality. Intertextual relations can, of course, be relatively simple or complex; authors can use them knowingly or unawares, actively or inertly. Although classicists have started to use the word intertextuality only recently, they have long been aware of the notion it denotes. Classical literature is congenitally and compulsively allusive; commentaries on classical texts traditionally make a practice of accumulating parallels, albeit often without much explicit sense of their allusive weight or interpretation of its function. Allusion, however, is included in but not coterminous with intertextuality: an allusion is something an author makes, deliberately, perhaps decoratively, perhaps with profound meaning; intertextuality is a property of texts when actuated by their readers, and not necessarily consciously deployed by their authors; it may relate to a specific intertext, but equally to a more general literary praxis.

'What is time?', worried St Augustine. 'I know what it is, provided no-one asks me.' Augustine brilliantly captures the paradoxical truth that 'time' is an essential everyday term which everyone uses comfortably, but which becomes increasingly hard to understand the more one thinks about it - and Augustine thought very hard about time. For literary criticism, 'genre' is a similarly necessary but baffling term. It is an essential element of literary history and of our responses to literature: one of the first engagements with any text by a reader is the recognition of genre, and it would be hard to imagine a literary history that did not depend on genre as an organising category. Yet what is at stake in the term 'genre' or, more specifically, 'the genre of the novel', is less easy to determine. In what ways does calling a text a 'novel', or excluding a text from the 'genre of the novel', matter? How does it affect what writers write and how readers read? Is genre a question of formal qualities, that is, a set of stylistic elements, which any text must have in order to be classed as a novel? Or is there more at issue - politics, sociology, the expectations of readers? The first section of this chapter investigates the issues underlying the term 'genre' and, more specifically, 'the genre of the novel'; the second section looks at how 'genre' has played a crucial role in the critical history of the ancient novel; the third section looks at some specific texts to see how the use of the term 'genre' can open and close avenues of appreciation of ancient fiction. The simple question which underlies these discussions is this: what difference does it make to call a particular work a 'novel'?

Religion plays a central role in the plot of virtually every ancient fictional narrative, influencing the lives, actions, mentality, practices, beliefs and eventual fates of the characters (and narrators); the types, interventions and motives of divinity or other uncanny forces; the use of mythological exemplars, and more broadly, the array of problems that the entire subject poses for interpretation of the genre's conventions. The novels are full of: temples, shrines, altars, priests, rituals and offerings, dreams (or oracles), prophecies, divine epiphanies, aretalogies, mystic language and other metaphors of the sacred (not forgetting, in addition, exotic barbarian rites). Indeed, religious elements, such as these, familiar to virtually any inhabitant of the ancient world, are richly attested, of course, in history and archaeology. The topography of any ancient city, for example, would be unrecognisable without its temples and shrines, its statues and votive offerings, its frequent public festivals and processions, and its generally familiar modes of worship. Such is the case in the novels, for all their differences, in which its characters range far and wide in the course of their wanderings and communicate with the sacred in these habitual ways, whether in the cities of Asia Minor (Ephesus, Miletus, Rhodes, Sidon, Byzantium), Egypt (Memphis, Thebes, Alexandria), Greece (Delphi, Corinth), Italy (Syracuse, Rome) or elsewhere.

Many people brought up in English-language educational systems are under the impression that the modern novel is a mid-eighteenth-century development. In fact, a rich tradition of novels and attendant literary theory originated in continental Europe as early as the end of the sixteenth century and continued into the seventeenth century. Part 1 of this chapter focuses on the impact of the ancient Greek novels on the development of extended prose fiction, that is, the novel, in parts of early modern western Europe. During that period continental European novelists, especially in France, were learning from ancient Greek novelists how to construct extended, complex, plot-driven stories in prose, and literary theorists were explaining how to achieve 'heroic' tone and fashion 'heroic' prose narratives in the mould of epic poetry. By the end of the seventeenth century the lessons of narrative manipulation and the creation of appropriate tone had been learnt fully in much of western Europe. Beyond that point these features had become so thoroughly naturalised in the novels of western Europe that it becomes impossible to distinguish between direct imitations and adaptations on the one hand and imitations of imitations on the other hand.

Where do we pitch the novels, in terms of social class? This is a more difficult question than is often admitted. The authors, to begin with them, can rarely be pinpointed demographically. The Latin novelists were no doubt high-powered individuals: Petronius was probably Nero's courtier, and Apuleius' father - a duumvir or chief magistrate in his city of Madaurus - was rich enough to leave his sons the hefty sum of 2 million sesterces (Apology 23.1). The Greek writers are, however, more shadowy. Chariton describes himself as 'from Aphrodisias, a clerk (hypographeus) to the rhetor Athenagoras' (1.1.1): even if this is biographically true - and there is good reason to suspect an erotic novelist who styles himself 'Charming, from the City of Aphrodite' - it is hard to guess except in the broadest terms what kind of echelon such a professional occupied in first-century CE Aphrodisias. Heliodorus' descent 'from the race of the sun' (10.41.4) looks like a claim to hereditary priesthood, but the same uncertainties apply. If Heliodorus, and Achilles Tatius with him, did indeed become Christian bishops (as later tradition maintained), then they can hardly have been socially insignificant, but the chances are that these reports are fictions. Finally, Iamblichus, whose Babylonian Affairs survives only in fragments and summary, is reported in a late source to have been born of slaves, although this notice has been suspected, with some justice.

'Am I always to be a listener? Am I never to get my own back?' With these words the Latin poet Juvenal in the early second century CE opened the first of his Satires, purporting to give his readers a reason for his taking up writing. He goes on to give 'reasons' for his choice of satire. These can be only some of the factors we might want to see as contributing to an explanation for his writing what he did, but his opening offers us a good way into the issues relevant to why, in the literary world of the high Roman empire, somebody might choose to write poetry or prose at all, and into the factors that might have influenced a would-be writer either to choose an unusual genre or even to develop one that could be seen as in all or many respects new. Some of these factors are different in the Greek and the Latin worlds, and the greater part of the following exploration of the place of novels in the literature of the Roman empire will focus on the setting of the Greek novels within Greek literary production and consumption. My discussion of the Greek novels will attempt to set each of four surviving 'ideal' novels in the context of the Greek literature that had recently been written. For each period I shall ask what sort of literature was already prevalent when a choice to write a novel was made; what features in that literature might have encouraged or contributed to the novelist's project; and in assessing the subsequent period will ask whether there are any traces of the novel impinging on literature in other genres.

In 1453, Francesco Griffolini, already known for Latin translations of Greek works, borrowed from the new Vatican Library four Greek manuscripts: of Thucydides, Demosthenes, Heliodorus, and Lucian. The official who recorded the loan entered the third as 'Eliodorus' history of matters in Ethiopia'. Whether Griffolini would have expected a Thucydidean history or just a story, he did not translate Heliodorus, and no other reader is known before Politian, who read far enough into Charicleia and Theagenes to meet the giraffe (10.27). Few scholars of the day would have been capable of shedding light from so recondite a quarter, and in so timely a translation, on the creature that had crowds agape when the sultan of Egypt sent Lorenzo de' Medici one as a present in 1487. Politian's reading also took in Longus and Xenophon of Ephesus, but from Longus' 'Story of shepherds in four very stylish books' he cites only the garb of Philetas, particularly his sandals (2.3.1), and from Xenophon, 'no less appealing' than his Athenian namesake, he translates a passage early in the work, the procession to the temple of Artemis (1.2.2-5). He brings the passages to bear on problems in Catullus and Martial. The manuscript in which he read them is immediately identifiable, because no other of Xenophon has survived from his day and it had been in Florence, to which it owes its symbol F in modern editions, since at least 1425. In a sequence interrupted only by a snippet opportunistically fitted into a blank space at the end of Achilles Tatius, it includes Longus, Achilles Tatius up to 4.4, Chariton and Xenophon. Some manuscripts of Greek novels had been in Italy longer, and indeed some of these may have been written in Greek-speaking Calabria.

Although Jung named his school of thought “analytical psychology,” he might with equal justification have called it “archetypal psychology.” No other term is more basic to Jungian analysis than “archetype”; yet no other term has been the source of so much definitional confusion. Part of the reason is that Jung defined “archetype” in different ways at different times. Sometimes, he spoke of archetypes as if they were images. Sometimes, he distinguished more precisely between archetypes as unconscious forms devoid of any specific content and archetypal images as the conscious contents of those forms. Both Freud and Jung acknowledged the existence of archetypes, which Freud called phylogenetic “schemata” (1918/1955), or phylogenetic “prototypes” (1927/1961). Philosophically, Freud and Jung were neo-Kantian structuralists who believed that hereditary categories of the psyche imaginatively inform human experience in typical or schematic ways. Freud (1918/1955) alludes to Kant when he says that the phylogenetic schemata are comparable to “the categories of philosophy” because they “are concerned with the business of 'placing' the impressions derived fromactual experience.” He states that the Oedipus complex is “one of them” - evidently one among many - “the best known” of the schemata.

Considered by many (e.g. Ellenberger, 1970; Bair, 2003; Papadopoulos, 2006) the most original, broadly educated, and philosophical of the depth psychologists, Jung inhabited a specific era whose scientific thought and popular culture formed the bedrock out of which analytical psychology developed. Analytical psychology has undergone a veritable renaissance of scholarship within the past ten years which cements Jung's key position as a major figure in psychology and the history of ideas. Henri Ellenberger's (1970) study of Jung remains pivotal as the most comprehensive about Jung's life and theory but also about the rise of psychology and psychotherapy in general. Among the growing number of recent scholars, J. J. Clarke (1992) and B. Ulanov (1992) track the pivotal place Jung's ideas occupied in the philosophical discourse of his time; W. L. Kelly (1991) considers Jung one of the four major contributors to contemporary knowledge of the unconscious; Moacanin (1986), Aziz (1990), Spiegelman (1985, 1987, 1991), and Clarke (1994) explore his relation to Eastern psychology and religious thought, while Hoeller (1989), May (1991), Segal (1992), and Charet (1993) trace his gnostic, alchemical, and European mystical roots. Sonu Shamdasani (2003) makes excellent use of much archival material that adds key scientific, sociocultural, and philosophical material to Ellenberger's classic work, while Deirdre Bair (2003) does the same for Jung's life story. This chapter owes much to their scholarship.

“The goal in psychotherapy is exactly the same as in Buddhism.” (C. G. Jung) “The most conspicuous difference between Buddhism and Western psychology is perhaps found in their respective treatments of the concept of “self.” In Western psychology, the existence of a “self” is generally affirmed; Buddhism denies the existence of an enduring “self” and substitutes instead the concept of anatman, “no-self.”” (Masao Abe) / C. G. Jung was the first psychoanalyst to pay close and serious attention to Buddhism and to write commentary on his own careful readings of Buddhist texts. In 1992, Meckel and Moore published a comprehensive collection of the English translations of Jung's commentaries - beginning with Jung's 1939 “Foreword” to Suzuki's Introduction to Zen Buddhism (Meckel and Moore, 1992, pp. 11-30). Jung wrote about and commented on writings from Japanese, Tibetan, and Chinese sources. Bringing in both original insights and important questions, Jung's essays formed an early backdrop for various conversations to develop between Western psychology and Buddhist practices. My own training to become a Jungian psychoanalyst began in 1979, eight years after I had formally become a student of Zen Buddhism. I came to my study of psychology in general, and to Jung's psychology in particular, with a background in Buddhist thought and practice. The interaction between the two disciplines has formed a core aspect of my development as a human being and a psychoanalyst for several decades now. While this interaction has been extraordinarily useful, it hasn't always been easy or clear.

My training at the C. G. Jung Institute in Zurich began in 1948, in the second semester of its existence. Virtually all of the teachers and analysts were, or had been, in analysis with Jung himself, so his discoveries and reflections were coming to us with convincing authority. And beyond this, Jung's method, such as the attitude of respect, found a deep assent in my soul. I can label as “classical” a form of Jungian psychoanalysis which sees the analytic work as one of ongoing mutual discovery, making conscious the unconscious life and progressively releasing a person from meaninglessness and compulsion. The “classical” approach relies on a spirit of dialogue between conscious and unconscious, as well as between the two analytic partners. It therefore also regards the conscious ego as uniquely indispensable to the whole process, in contrast to the “archetypal” school, for which the ego is one of many autonomous archetypal entities. And in contrast to the “developmental” school, the “classical” school defines development not so much by years of age or even by psychological stages, as by an individual's attainment of that conscious Self which is hers or his alone to realize. This position will, I hope, become clearer in the course of this chapter, as will one or two of my own reservations concerning that classical theory and practice which I encountered, so to speak, in their pristine form.

“One repays a teacher badly if one remains only a pupil. / And why, then, should you not pluck at my laurels? / You respect me; but how if one day your respect should tumble? / Take care that a falling statue does not strike you dead! / You had not yet sought yourselves when you found me. / Thus do all believers-. / Now I bid you lose me and find yourselves; a/ nd only when you have all denied me will I return to you.” (Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, quoted Jung to Freud, 1912) / Freudian psychoanalysis, a related body of clinical technique, interpretive strategy, and developmental theory, was articulated piecemeal in dozens of publications by Sigmund Freud, spread over a period of forty-five years. The structure of Freud's monumental twenty-three-volume corpus has been the subject of thousands of critical studies, and Freud is still one of the most popular subjects for biographers. Despite this wealth of writing, however, the effectiveness of Freud's therapeutic methods and the adequacy of his theories remain subjects of animated debate. This chapter is concerned with the status of Freud's theorizing during his collaboration with Carl Jung, and with the mutual influence of each thinker on the other in the years following their estrangement. Jung's seven-year discipleship with Freud was a turning point in his emergence as a distinctive thinker of world importance (Jung, 1963). At the beginning of his fascination with Freud in 1906, Jung was a thirty-one-year-old psychiatrist of unusual promise, with a gift for psychological research and a prestigious junior appointment at one of Europe's major centers for treatment of psychotic disorders (Kerr, 1993). By the time of his break with Freud in 1913, Jung was internationally known for his original contributions to clinical psychology and for his forceful leadership of the psychoanalytic movement. He was also the author of the seminal work, Transformations and Symbols of the Libido (CW 5), that would define his independence from that movement.

Analytical psychology as elaborated by Jung and his immediate followers did not focus on the depth psychological aspects of early infant and childhood development. Freud and his followers made the imaginative leap required to link the two pivotal areas of analytic investigation - the early stages of development and how such states of mind may manifest in adult patients, on the one hand, and the nature and varieties of transference and countertransference in the analytic relationship, on the other - and to include them in psychoanalytic theory. Analytical psychology was slow to follow suit, despite Jung's early and continued insistence on the importance of the relationship between analyst and patient, and his study of the Rosarium (CW 16) as a way of understanding the vicissitudes of the analytic couple. For Jung and the group that had formed around him, the rich and attractive field of creative and symbolic activity and collective and cultural pursuits appeared to be more engaging. Nevertheless, in certain respects it could be said that creative psychic activity, as well as its destructive and distressing aspects, could be located within two pivotal areas of investigation, and could be seen rightfully to belong to the examination of the relationship between primary process (that is, the earlier, more primitive mental processes with infantile foundations) and the later secondary mental processes.