Generational Archetypes: Introduction

The miraculous humble birth. The early evidence of superhuman power and strength. The rise to fame. The triumphant struggle with forces of evil. The overweening hubris. The fall. The climax of betrayal—or heroic sacrifice—and death. Perhaps you recognize this as the saga of Hercules, Superman, Jason and the Argonauts, or the boys of Iwo Jima.

Jung saw this “hero myth” as perhaps the most potent expression of his archetypes, recurring in a wide range of eras and cultures. Some hero myths, like Superman, are pure fable; others, like our memory of World War II veterans, are rooted in historical reality. Yet as time passes, the details that distinguish between fable and reality tend to fade until most of what’s left is myth, the raw outline of the archetype itself.

Many academic historians decry myth-making whenever they spot it—and lament the fact that much of what students “know” about the 1960s and ’70s comes from such films as JFK, Nixon, or Forrest Gump. Yet deliberate myth-making is as old as history itself. Margaret Mitchell constructed myths from the Civil War, Shakespeare from the War of the Roses, and Homer from some otherwise-forgotten skirmish in the Dardanelles. In any era, mythical archetypes assist people’s understanding of who they are and what they should live up to. By converting events into myths, a culture can transcend chaotic or linear history and allow the instinct for reenactment to express itself. The myths that endure are those that illuminate the virtues (or vices) that successive generations see recurring in their own time.

Of all myths, the most widely noticed is the hero myth. But as the contrasting stories of Hercules and Orpheus suggest, heroes can be secular or spiritual; they can display what Jung called either “extraverted” or “introverted” behavior. “There are two types of deed,” insists Joseph Campbell in The Power of Myth. “One is the physical deed, in which the hero performs a courageous act in battle or saves a life. The other is the spiritual deed, in which the hero learns to experience the supernatural range of human spiritual life and then comes back with the message.”

The secular hero-king and spiritual hero-prophet often appear in the same myth. Yet when they do, they are never the same age—not even close. Typically, they are two phases of life apart. In legends where the young hero-king makes his perilous journey, his first encounter is often with what Campbell describes as “a protective figure (often a little old crone or old man) who provides the adventurer with amulets against the dragon forces he is about to pass.” The prophet can be a ritual elder, holy man, or what Campbell calls a “shaman"—a person who has undergone a spiritually transforming rite of passage and, entering old age, uses the powers thereby gained to assist the young. This elder possesses little worldly power but supernatural gifts of magic and access to the gods.

Recall all the classic western pairings of the young hero and the elder prophet: Joshua and Moses in the Old Testament; the Argonauts and the centaur Cheiron in Hellenic myth; Aeneas and the Sybil of Cumae in Roman myth; King Arthur and Merlin in Celtic myth; Siegfried and Hildebrand in Teutonic myth; or Cuchulain and Skatha the Wise in Gaelic myth. Outside the West, such pairings are nearly as common. In Hindu myth, the young king Rama meets the old hermit Agastya. In Egyptian myth, Horus, son of Osiris, is taught by Thoth, the all-knowing vizier. In Navajo myth, the questing young sun gods are told powerful secrets by the cronish Spider Woman. Even today, this timeless tale continues to be retold—as Disney’s Apprentice and the Sorcerer; as The Hobbit’s Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf; as Star Wars’ Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi; and as The Lion King’s Simba and Rafiki (who, like the Egyptian Thoth, takes the form of a wise baboon).

For the young hero, the elder prophet is not necessarily an ally. He (or, often, she) can also be a lethal enemy—as Medusa was for Jason, or as the crone sorcerers were in Snow White or The Wizard of Oz. Yet more often, as Campbell notes, the young hero’s close bond with a wise elder is essential to his ultimate success. Like Merlin, he will be a loving teacher. Like Obe Wan Kenobe, he will feel the unseen “force” of the universe. Like Gandalf, he will rescue the young hero through mysterious mental powers. Like Mickey’s Sorcerer, he will warn against the dangers of hubris. In the end, the old prophet helps the young king find (or save) his dynasty.

Myths involving young hero-kings and old prophets are universal in part because people are comforted to hear tales of the valor of youth tempered by the wisdom of age. Yet people of all eras know that such a mythlike symbiosis between young and old occurs only on occasion. In America, certainly, it has not been present for decades. The last time heroic youth and wise elders had this kind of constructive relationship was during World War II. The reason these young Hero myths are so embedded in our civilization is because they explain events when the secular world (the domain of kings) is being redefined beyond prior recognition—in other words, in Crisis eras.

Another popular type of myth—of the young prophet and the old king—is much the opposite. These legends tell not of the founding of kingdoms, but of religions. They invoke memories not of a world threatened by dire peril, but of a world suffocating under mighty dynasties that have become oversecure and soul-dead. They speak to the insight (not valor) of youth and the blindness (not wisdom) of elders.

When we encounter sacred myths of young prophets (Abraham in Ur, Moses in Egypt, Jesus before the Roman magistrate), the dominant image of persons roughly 40 years older is typically one of expansive wealth and rationalism, resplendent in power but bereft of values (Hammurabi, the Pharaoh, Pontius Pilate). While the hero myth ends in the palatial city, the prophet myth starts there. In the Buddhist myth, young Siddhartha escapes the sumptuous pleasure dome of his royal father. In Persian myth, young Zoroaster defies the too-worldly kavis and karpans. In Islamic lore, young Mohammed challenges the immorality of the rich merchant families. In western fables, young Merlin stands up to the mighty King Vortigen; young Bacchus puts the gold curse on old King Midas; and the Pied Piper steals the youth away from the stolid burghers of Hamelin.

These Prophet myths reveal what Jung would call the shadow of the aging hero archetype. The Hero is seen not through his own eyes, but through the fresh vision of the youth Prophet. The one who sees that the emperor has no clothes is not one of the emperor’s own peers, but a child who dares to speak the truth. Occasionally, these myths present kindly older people, often women, who help youths express their visions. Yet the recurring tone of these myths is one of stress and hostility across the generations. By teaching lessons about vision (or self-centeredness) among the young and power (or corruption) among the old, these young Prophet myths speak of Awakening eras.

Myths evoking the Nomad and Artist are less grand and more personal, mainly because they encounter history’s turning points at a less critical phase of life. These archetypes encounter their first turning point not coming of age, but growing up as children (the Nomad in an Awakening, the Artist in Crisis). They encounter their second turning point not entering the peak of elder power, but entering midlife (the Nomad in Crisis, the Artist in an Awakening).

Compared to the Hero and Prophet myths, their tales speak more to human relations than to the rise and fall of dynasties and religions. Yet they too embody “shadow” lifecycles that mirror each other in reverse. Nomads are abandoned and alienated children who later, as adults, strive to slow down, simplify, and brace their social environment. Artists are sheltered and sensitive children who later, as adults, strive to speed up, complicate, and adorn their social environment. Nomads are raised to manage alone and are burdened with low expectations. Artists are raised to cooperate with others and are burdened with high expectations.

One common story line features a Cinderella-like hated child, immersed in a hostile or neglectful social environment, who must apply competitive instincts first to survive, then to succeed. In similar myths, hard-scrabble youths must use their wits to evade murder (Aladdin), cannibalism (Hansel and Gretel), slavery (Pinocchio), or meltdown (Toy Soldier). Parental figures are typically missing, and the enemies are less often elders than prime-of-life people possessed of a ruthless vanity. If aging people are wizards, they are friendly helpmates, more like fairies than sorcerers, their powers flowing from whimsical kindness more than stern wisdom. These myths depict the child Nomad being nurtured by an older Artist amidst the darker sides of an Awakening.

When a myth shows the Nomad archetype in midlife, the story tells of an aging adventurer, savvy but going it alone. If older generations are present, they represent an older Prophet and a younger Hero—never the other way around. The Nomad is neither as dutiful (or naive) as the younger Hero, nor as transcendently wise (or wicked) as the older Prophet. The best the Nomad can hope to experience is a brush with others’ greatness. In the Star Wars trilogy, Hans Solo looks down the age ladder and sees the good Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia—and looks up and sees the wise Obe Wan Kenobe and the evil Darth Vader. These are times of Crisis, during which the Nomad does the dirty work with little expectation of public praise or reward.

The opposing child myth is that of the sensitive, dutiful youth enveloped in protections constructed by no-nonsense adults. Recall the classic myth of the Little Dutch Boy, doing his small part to save the mighty dike, or in anthropomorphic tales of sweetly vulnerable little animals (Bambi, Peter Cottontail) or machines (The Little Engine That Could). These myths depict children who look for ways to be helpful in a closed social environment where dos and don’ts are unquestioned. Sometimes adults have built such an impenetrable perimeter of protection that the outer world is invisible (Uncle Remus, Winnie the Pooh). Relations across generations are harmonious. Where the emotional timbre of the young Nomad stories is blunt and horrifying, here it is subtle and heartwarming. These myths depict the child Artist being nurtured by an older Nomad. Looking carefully through a child’s prism, we can recognize the possibility (Christopher Robin), if not the fact (Little Dutch Boy), that the adult world is in Crisis.

In these four archetypal myths, you can recognize two sets of opposing temperaments, as well as two sets of inverted lifecycles. When multiple generations enter the myths, you typically see the Nomad sandwiched between the younger Hero and the older Prophet, and the Artist between the younger Prophet and the elder Hero.

This same archetypal ordering arises again and again in nearly every time and culture. Why? A society will not elevate an event (or story) into myth unless it illustrates enduring human tendencies. This ordering reflects a latent understanding of the shadow suppressed within each archetype. Were it possible for generations to come in some different order (say, from Hero to Prophet to Artist to Nomad), it would be much harder for the shadows to reveal themselves, or for a society to have that enantiodromia that enables civilization to correct its worst excesses.

What Jung observed about individuals is also true for generations: Each archetype’s shadow is best revealed by the one directly across the cycle, two phases-of-life distant. The too-sanguine aging Heroes are countered by the fresh insights of young Prophets; the too-melancholic aging Prophets, by the valor of young Heroes; the too-phlegmatic aging Nomads, by the sensitivity of young Artists; and the too-choleric aging Artists, by the survival skills of young Nomads.

This sequence further explains the oft-noted similarities between very old and very young generations, whose location in time lies a full cycle apart. If a generation’s shadow is two phases of life older (or younger), then a generation’s matching archetype is four phases of life older (or younger). “It is one of nature’s ways,” Igor Stravinsky once observed, “that we often feel closer to distant generations than to the generation immediately preceding us.” The affinity between grandparent and grandchild is universal folk wisdom. If each family generation is assumed to be a rough proxy for two phase-of-life generations—meaning that you “shadow” your parents and “match” your grandparents—then this folk wisdom directly reflects the sequence of archetypes.

In one of America’s grandest historical myths, Gone With the Wind, Margaret Mitchell has her characters acknowledge the similarities between archetypes born more than sixty years apart. At one point in the story, Rhett Butler tells Scarlett:

“If you are different, you are isolated, not only from people of your own age but from those of your parents’ generation and from your children’s generation too. They’ll never understand you, and they’ll be shocked no matter what you do. But your grandparents would probably be proud of you and say: ’There’s a chip off the old block,’ and your grandchildren will sigh enviously and say: ’What an old rip Grandma must have been!’ and they’ll try to be like you.”

Describing his “pirate” grandfather, Rhett admitted “I admired him and tried to copy him far more than I ever did my father, for Father is an amiable gentleman full of honorable habits and pious saws—so you see how it goes.” Rhett predicted that Scarlett’s children “will probably be soft, prissy creatures, as the children of hard-bitten characters usually are.... So you’ll have to get approval from your grandchildren.” In Mitchell’s story, Rhett and Scarlett represented the (Nomad) Gilded Generation; their parents the (Artist) Compromise Generation; their children the (Artist) Progressive Generation; and their grandchildren most likely the (Nomad) Lost Generation.

What these modern myths illustrate is this: Your generation isn’t like the generation that shaped you, but it has much in common with the generation that shaped the generation that shaped you. Or, put another way: Archetypes do not create archetypes like themselves; instead, they create the shadows of archetypes like themselves.

These myths suggest that for any generational differences to arise at all, a quaternity of opposing archetypes becomes a logical necessity. How else could young heroes emerge, if not in response to the worldly impotence of self-absorbed elder prophets? How else could young prophets emerge, if not in response to the spiritual complacency of hubristic elder heroes? This in turn requires that each generation exert a dominant formative influence on people who are two phases of life younger—that is, on the second younger generation.

This critical cross-cycle relationship it just what we see in most societies. It arises because a new child generation gathers its first impressions about the world just as a new midlife generation gains control of the institutions that surround a child. Even though a child’s biological parents will be distributed about equally over the two prior generations (assuming that generations average about 21 years in length), the older parental group has the dominant role. Boomers were parented by G.I.s and Silent, but the G.I.s exerted a far greater power over ’50s-era schools, PTAs, pediatric advice, TV, and movies. In the 1990s, similarly, Boomers and Xers together gave birth to Millennial children, but the tone has been set by Bill Bennett, Hillary Clinton, Steven Spielberg, and Bill Gates and their Boomer peers. Likewise, the Lost Norman Rockwells set the tone for the Silent, and the Silent Bill Cosbys for Xers, just as the Xer Jodie Fosters will set the tone for the generation born early next century.

Move up one phase-of-life notch, and this pattern repeats. When a child generation comes of age, it does so just as that older generation enters elderhood and gains control of the institutions surrounding the young adult’s world. A younger generation reaches military age just as its cross-cycle shadow reaches its maximum power to declare war. In American history, for instance, a generation’s dominance in national leadership posts typically peaks around the time its first cohorts reach age 65—just as footsoldiers are on average about 42 years (or two phases of life) younger. The G.I.s fought in (Missionary-declared) World War II, the Silent in the (Lost-declared) Korean War, Boomers in (G.I.-declared) Vietnam, and Xers in (Silent-declared) Desert Storm.

This cross-cycle relationship has been true throughout American history. Franklin’s (Prophet) Awakening Generation set the tone for Jefferson’s (Hero) Republicans, which in turn did so for Lincoln’s (Prophet) Transcendentals. In between, Washington’s (Nomad) Liberty Generation set the tone for Daniel Webster’s (Artist) Compromisers, which afterwards did it for Grant’s (Nomad) Gilded.

The reaction of each archetype to its shadow can be friendly or antagonistic. Like Luke Skywalker’s dual relationship with his father, it is usually some of both. Intentionally or not, most parents enter midlife trying to raise a new generation whose collective persona will complement, and not mirror, their own. Later on, however, the results of that nurture often come as a surprise. The G.I. pediatrician Benjamin Spock declared just after World War II that “we need idealistic children,” and his peers raised Boomers accordingly—though many later voiced anger over the narcissistic product. Silent author Judy Blume wrote at the height of the Consciousness Revolution that “I hate the idea that you should always protect children,” and her peers raised Xer children accordingly—though many later voiced anguish over the hardened product.

A key consequence of these cross-cycle shadow relationships is a recurring pattern that lies at the heart of the saeculum: an oscillation between the overprotection and underprotection of children. During a Crisis, Nomad-led families overprotect Artist children; during an Awakening, Artist-led families underprotect Nomad children. Following a Crisis, Hero-led families expand the freedoms of Prophet children; following an Awakening, Prophet-led families curtail the freedoms of Hero children.

These powerful cross-cycle phenomena explain why myths always depict the archetypes in one fixed order—the only order that is possible in the seasons of time: Hero to Artist to Prophet to Nomad. Recurring in this order, the four archetypes produce four possible generational constellations.

As each archetype ages, its persona undergoes profound yet characteristic changes—echoing the ancient Hellenic doctrine that all living things develop toward a destination contrary to the form in which they first present themselves. Yet each archetype also has an underlying identity that endures unchanged. “Value orientations do not change much during a generation’s life time,” writes sociologist J. Zvi Namenworth. “Committed during its early stages, a generation most often carried its value commitments into the grave.” Once a generation fully occupies the leadership role of midlife, it succeeds in reshaping the social environment to reflect that orientation. Meanwhile, knowingly or not, it nurtures a new child generation as its shadow, equipping it to challenge its own ruling mentality. As the parental generation enters elderhood blind to its shadow, the child generation comes of age, emerges as the shadow, and reacts against its elders’ perceived excesses.

When this rhythm is filled out with the full range of historical examples, a four-type cycle of generations emerges. They are listed here beginning with the Prophet archetype—the one born in the saecular spring.

• A Prophet generation grows up as increasingly indulged post-Crisis children, comes of age as the narcissistic young crusaders of an Awakening, cultivates principle as moralistic midlifers, and emerges as wise elders guiding the next Crisis.
• A Nomad generation grows up as underprotected children during an Awakening, comes of age as the alienated young adults of a post-Awakening world, mellows into pragmatic midlife leaders during a Crisis, and ages into tough post-Crisis elders.
• A Hero generation grows up as increasingly protected post-Awakening children, comes of age as the heroic young teamworkers of a Crisis, demonstrates hubris as energetic midlifers, and emerges as powerful Awakening elders attacked by the next Awakening.
• An Artist generation grows up as overprotected children during a Crisis, comes of age as the sensitive young adults of a post-Crisis world, breaks free as indecisive midlife leaders during an Awakening, and ages into empathic post-Awakening elders.

Has anybody noticed this four-type cycle before? Yes—many times, over the millennia.