The socionics types

Don Quixote gives himself away by his habit of connecting things that seem unrelated to everyone else. A new idea absorbs him completely: he will happily abandon a half-finished task if something more interesting looms ahead, and routine causes him almost physical suffering. With people he is simple and unceremonious; he argues with relish yet rarely takes offence — for him an argument is a way to finish thinking a thought, not to settle scores.

Dumas notices what escapes everyone else: an uncomfortable chair, a tired companion, soup that is slightly oversalted. Out of such small things he builds a space around himself where people feel calm and at ease. He dislikes pressuring others and copes poorly with pressure himself, so he prefers to defuse brewing conflicts in advance — with a joke, a kind gesture or a well-timed cup of tea.

Wherever Hugo appears it gets louder and warmer: he knows how to infect people with his mood and pull them into shared activity, be it a party or a work bee. His emotions are always on the surface, from delight to indignation, and those around him rarely have to guess what he feels. Behind the outward expansiveness stands a thoroughly practical person who remembers colleagues' birthdays and can lay a table for twenty.

Robespierre takes any question apart down to its foundations until he sees its inner structure, and derives his own answers from it. Majority opinion or an appeal to authority does not count as an argument for him; only logic in which he can find no flaw can change his mind. He lives rather privately, guarding his personal space and his schedule, yet follows his once-established principles with rare constancy.

Hamlet senses the dramaturgy of events: where tension is building, where things are heading and which moment will prove decisive. He can speak so that no one in the room stays indifferent — images, intonation and pauses serve his argument no less than facts do. His own feelings run deep and are often tormenting, yet it is precisely from them that his power to captivate and lead people grows.

Maxim Gorky finishes what others left as a rough draft: he sorts everything onto its shelf, writes out the procedure and makes sure the system runs without failures. He keeps his promises with a precision he expects from others too, which is why broken agreements wound him. Chaos and uncertainty drain him more than any work — even his holidays are usually planned in advance.

Zhukov sizes up the balance of forces quickly and without illusions: where the weak spot is, what everyone is worth, what will take time and resources. Responsibility for large, risky ventures does not frighten him — in a critical situation he pulls himself together and acts even more confidently than in a calm one. His directness sometimes stings people, though he bears no grudges himself and respects those who can push back.

Yesenin lives with a heightened sense of time: earlier than others he catches where the mood of a person, a group or a whole era is turning. Crude interference in events is alien to him — he prefers to wait for the right moment and gently nudge things in the needed direction. His inner world is full of images, memories and premonitions, which he shares cautiously, making him seem more mysterious than he really is.

Napoleon walks into any gathering as if he had long been expected, and within half an hour knows half the room by name. Influence over people is his element: he senses whom to flatter, whom to encourage and through whom the right question gets settled. He gets his way through drive and charm, and takes defeats stormily but briefly — by the next day he usually has a new plan ready.

Balzac sees a project's weak points at the stage when everyone around is still full of enthusiasm — and is usually proved right. His scepticism grows out of a tenacious memory for precedents and an ability to calculate what a process will turn into in a year or in ten. He spends his energy sparingly and stays out of gambles, which is why his rare definite recommendations are worth a lot: behind each stands long, sober analysis.

Jack London feels cramped inside settled processes: he is forever working out what could be sped up, automated or made more profitable. Work takes up an enormous part of his life, and he is drawn to tasks with a distant horizon — launches, experiments, opening up the new. Everyday trifles easily slip out of his field of view, and he is sincerely grateful to the people who take them on.

Dreiser judges a person by their deeds and changes his opinion reluctantly: his trust grows slowly, over years, and can collapse after a single betrayal. He guards his inner circle actively — when one of his own is wronged, concrete intercession follows instead of talk about justice. He is as strict with himself as with others, and always meets the demands he makes of those around him.

Stierlitz cannot work at half strength: he brings every job to a state he need not be ashamed of, and spots defects where others walk past. Organising processes comes naturally to him — who is responsible for what, on what schedule and from which materials all seems to arrange itself. He listens politely to abstract theories, but what convinces him is facts, experience and the quality of the finished result.

Dostoevsky hears another person's state before they manage to speak of it, and knows how to be silently near exactly when it is needed. Conflicts cause him almost physical pain, so he puts great effort into reconciling people and keeping relationships from breaking down. He imposes his moral bearings on no one, though he follows them unswervingly himself, even when it costs him dearly.

Huxley recognises a person's abilities at first meeting and often starts believing in people before they believe in themselves. Monotony is torture for him: he needs fresh acquaintances, unexpected ideas and the freedom to dash off when something interesting appears ahead. Connections keep forming around him — he brings together people, projects and opportunities with an ease that from the outside looks like sheer luck.

Gabin is built so that a superfluous movement strikes him as a design flaw: a tool should sit comfortably in the hand, a process should run without strain, and the result should last. With his hands he often expresses what he will not say aloud: he repairs, adjusts, makes things more convenient, and those close to him read his feelings in these actions. Fuss and loud words wear him down, yet being near him is calming, like a well-lived-in workshop.