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The publication of Jung's collected works in twelve commodious volumes throws doubt on the claim which is implied in the title of this short book. Or is the rest all padding? The scrupulous reader will still want to judge for himself, and as he sets out to explore the dark realms of Jung's thought he must often wish—at least I did—that there were a clear sighted guide to lead him on his way. Having read the opening chapters of Memories, Dreams, Reflections —and surely there could be no better introduction to Jung's life's work than the intimate recollections of the man himself—it is difficult to avoid the metaphor and the thought that Jung was not so much a product of his time as of his place of birth. In spite of his enormous erudition—and for Freudians especially his original studies of religious, and particularly Eastern thought, are recommended reading—Jung probably remains for most analysts a curiously and conservatively rooting animal, who does not travel well from his native Switzerland. The present volume does not provide a guide and, while respecting its author's conscientiousness and devotion, I did not find his attitudes helpful; indeed, together with a pedestrian style, they make for a distinctly dull little book. Its importance lies in its reminding us that we cannot afford to neglect Jung if we wish to analyse patients for whom religion still matters.