ABSTRACT
Cycloid men are simple and uncomplicated beings, whose feelings rise directly, naturally, and undisguised to the surface, so that everyone can soon get a correct judgment of them. Schizoid men have a surface and a depth. Cuttingly brutal, dull and sulky, bitingly sarcastic, or timidly retiring, like a mollusc without a shell—that is the surface. Or else the surface is just nothing; we see a man who stands in our way like a question mark, we feel that we are in contact with something flavourless, boring, and yet with a certain problematic quality about it. What is there in the deep under all these masks ? Perhaps there is a nothing, a dark, hollow-eyed nothing—affective anaemia. Behind an ever-silent façade, which twitches uncertainly with every expiring whim — nothing but broken pieces, black rubbish heaps, yawning emotional emptiness, or the cold breath of an arctic soullessness. But from the façade we cannot see what lurks behind. Many schizoid folk are like Roman houses and villas, which have closed their shutters before the rays of the burning sun; perhaps in the subdued interior light there are festivities.
