Articles

Asya was an extraordinarily ethereal woman; at the sight of her, words like fragility, modesty, refinement, femininity, weakness and ideal came to mind. Her porcelain skin, framed by soft fair hair, set off pale eyes fixed on some beautiful world where everyone was a friend and there was neither pain nor hurt nor evil. The mere contact of such a creature with our sinful world seemed an unimaginable sacrilege, let alone the fact that here she had to work and to survive, and that we were supposed

Eva had never really believed in fate. She was more at home with facts, algorithms and long columns of figures, in which — to her managers' astonishment — she would pick out mistakes and inaccuracies at the very first quick glance. She knew her star sign, of course, and knew that some of her traits even matched it, but scanning the paper every morning for warnings and words of guidance addressed to her sign, the way her mother did — that was going too far.

To each their own, and we are all one of a kind? If we had nothing at all in common, there would be no psychology, and certainly no religion would ever have arisen. Because every religion is an answer to the personality's demand for its own development.

The article below is nasty. It describes nothing but composite portraits of all the personality types and does not refer to any one particular person. Rather, like the description of any clinical picture, it takes in the extreme manifestations, the ones where everything has gone completely to pot. So if you are of a delicate disposition, please do not read any further. Everyone else: dig out every last reserve of your sense of humour. Right then, off we go.