For instance, Argen- tine people play tennis; a ball jumps over the fence. There is a little Indian girl outside, and the people inside ask her to throw the ball in. She sadly stares at the people and does nothing. Then naturally they ask her, "Why don't you throw the ball over the fence?" "I have no gana" no pleasure in doing it. "I can't do it, because I have no pleas- ure in it"; and then you can't do it. That, you see, is a primi- tive concept. Gana is what we would l call libido, or energy, or volition. When gana is absent, that is an excellent motive. For instance, when somebody asks you a favour, and you say, "I'm sorry, it doesn't please me," or that you don't like it, that is very impolite. But in South America it is different. There people understand what it means when you say it doesn't please you; that is enough. You say, "I have no gana"; that counts. There is also a social recognition of the extraordinarily important fact whether somebody is pleased to do something or not. With us this apparently does not count at all.
Carl Gustav Jung here.
It is part of the magic of language that some people can get to the same place by the use of totally different words. Julian of Norwich, a fourteenth-century hermitess, said it so well that a paragraph of hers was used recently by a physicist for his introduction to a hard-science review of contemporary cosmological physics: “He shewed me a little thing, the quantity of an hazelnut, in the palm of my hand, and it was as round as a ball. I looked thereupon with eye of my understanding and thought: What may this be? And it was answered generally thus: it is all that is made.”
Lewis Thomas, from ‘The Lives of a Cell’.