Arthur Edward Waite’s The Key to the Tarot presents itself as the official interpretive guide to what has become the most globally ubiquitous tarot deck, the Rider–Waite, but to read it—especially growing up in the UK, where tarot packs and “companion manuals” were staples of second-hand bookshops and Woolworths’ clearance shelves—is to experience not illumination but a kind of English fog. The prose is dense, frumpy, written in that peculiarly Edwardian register that seems incapable of letting an idea breathe without suffocating it first in convoluted syntax. For someone like me, who as a teenager scoured every corner of the “occult” sections of provincial charity shops and musty bookstalls, often for less than two quid, this book had the aura of forbidden knowledge but quickly revealed itself as something closer to clerical nagging. Waite spends much of his energy sneering at rival interpreters, “parlor wizards” whose systems he deems fanciful, while simultaneously grounding his own interpretive scheme almost exclusively in a Judeo-Christian symbology that he refuses to acknowledge as just as constructed, just as arbitrary.
From a Jungian standpoint, the failure here is not merely stylistic but archetypal. Tarot cards, in their enduring cultural life, resonate because they crystallise aspects of the collective unconscious: the Magician as the figure of agency and transformation, the Tower as catastrophic rupture, the Lovers as the drama of choice and union. Jung himself, though ambivalent, recognised the archetypal power of such imagery, allowing the unconscious to speak through symbol. Yet Waite does everything possible to stifle this vitality. He anchors the imagery so tightly to Christian allegory that the archetypes are flattened into moralistic instruction. The anima, the shadow, the Self—these are not allowed to emerge in the polyvalent play of symbol, but are repressed into the narrow confines of dogma.
This foreclosure becomes sharper when examined archetype by archetype. Take the shadow: in Jung’s model, the shadow is the repository of disavowed impulses, the darker double that must be integrated rather than denied. In Smith’s Rider–Waite imagery, the Devil card powerfully channels this: chains, instinctual bondage, a reminder that liberation comes only through recognition of what is disowned. Waite, however, treats it as little more than a cautionary Christian allegory against sin. By refusing to acknowledge the shadow as integral to psychic wholeness, he neuters the symbol, turning it from an opportunity for integration into a sermon for avoidance. Likewise, when the Tower falls—an archetypal image of the breakdown of old structures, of individuation through crisis—Waite frames it as a divine punishment. But individuation, Jung reminds us, requires precisely these shocks; the destruction of false edifices is what allows the Self to emerge. Waite’s reading is thus a refusal of individuation, a return to pious obedience where psychic development demands confrontation.
The anima and animus suffer the same flattening. Cards such as the High Priestess, the Empress, or the Star embody the anima in multiple registers: the mysterious guide, the generative mother, the distant beacon of hope. In Jung’s reading, these are not simply “women” but psychic functions within all individuals, the counter-sexual archetype that mediates access to the unconscious. Waite, however, insists on translating them back into Christian typologies—the Virgin Mary, ecclesiastical virtues—denying their dynamism as inner figures. Similarly, the animus in its positive aspect, suggested in cards like the Emperor or the Hierophant, becomes in Waite’s hands little more than affirmation of hierarchy, order, and institutional power. The cards that should represent the creative masculine principle, the rational guide within the psyche, are transformed into endorsements of clerical authority.
Finally, the Self, Jung’s term for the archetype of wholeness, finds only indirect expression in the tarot, perhaps most clearly in the World card, where the wreath, the four beasts, and the central figure indicate integration of opposites. In Waite’s reading, this becomes a simplistic eschatology, the “consummation of the great work” framed within a Christian teleology. Yet the Self is not an end-state of perfection imposed from without; it is the ongoing, often painful process of integration from within. Waite’s text thus robs the cards of their very psychological power, replacing an open invitation to individuation with a closed moral system.
And this is where the individuation process must be named outright. To Jung, individuation was the supreme task of life: the integration of conscious and unconscious, the harmonisation of shadow, anima/animus, and ego into the Self. The tarot, at its richest, can be read as a symbolic map of this process: the Fool’s journey from naïve beginning through trials, temptations, crises, and revelations, culminating in integration. Waite’s Key betrays this possibility. It mistranslates individuation into salvation, demanding conformity where growth requires confrontation. Rather than a spiral of psychic development, he offers a ladder of dogma. The reader who takes his interpretations at face value is steered away from self-discovery and back into submission to authority. In this way, Waite’s book does not just fail as a guide to the tarot; it actively obstructs the very psychic work the cards could facilitate.
Growing up in the UK, where the tarot was never entirely serious—half occult curiosity, half kitsch—it was precisely this rigidity that rankled. The Key tries to present itself as the only authorised interpretation, but in that attempt it reveals its own fragility. The more Waite insists on control, the more the unconscious resists. For a teenage reader, it was impossible not to start scribbling alternative meanings in the margins, not to project one’s own dreams, fears, and archetypes onto the cards. Waite’s dogma became the whetstone against which individuation sharpened itself.
This paradox is what redeems the text, albeit unintentionally. By so strenuously denying archetypal multiplicity, Waite provokes it all the more. Reading him today, the book is almost unendurable in its Victorian prolixity, but as an artefact it is invaluable: a window onto the way occult culture in Britain tried to reconcile its appetite for mystery with its terror of the unconscious. And by failing, it left the field open for Jungians, artists, and ordinary seekers to reclaim the tarot as a living symbolic system.
The irony, of course, is that Waite called his book The Key. But a key is meant to open a lock, not seal it tighter. The true key to the tarot lies not in his moralising but in the very symbols he tries to police, which continue to speak across cultures and centuries because they are archetypes, not dogmas. Individuation cannot be commanded, only undergone. And so the cards themselves escape his grasp, just as they escaped mine when I first tried to follow his tedious exegesis and instead found myself dreaming new meanings into them. That is the unconscious at work, that is the Self pushing through repression, that is individuation in action. Waite tried to write a key; what he produced was a padlock. But in struggling against it, readers discover the real key lies in their own unconscious, in the archetypal journey the tarot still embodies despite him.