Intuitive Types

Intuition is interested in meaning, purpose, and potential. Driven by curiosity and a thirst for exploration, it initially notices what deviates from its existing framework.

It focuses on the whole, disregarding details except as they contribute to the overall picture. It may overlook objects or only register their general presence, ignoring specifics (e.g., noticing a person but not their clothing).

The speech of Intuitive types is conceptual and general, emphasizing key ideas. When asked to describe a concrete object, they may struggle, beginning with generalities and inquiring about the desired level of detail.

This function can be further divided into Extraverted and Introverted:

Intuitive Type Speech (example + analysis)

Below is an example of text written by a person with a intuitive type (IEI). The analysis of the text follows.

A Trip to a Flower Shop

At some point in everyone’s life, a very important stage arrives. It spares no one — inevitable like growing up, relentless like the end of life.

Yes, it’s that time: flower growing.

That day, my colleagues from the neighboring department decided, in a semi-voluntary-compulsory fashion, to introduce me to the world of beauty.

Said beauty was located in a large covered pavilion, above the entrance of which hung an impressive sign reading “Greening.” This wasn’t some sad little “Flowers” kiosk by the metro — no, this was clearly a serious establishment, run by serious people, where serious money, serious grandmas and grandpas were in play. I spotted a couple of such venerable elders later by the shelves with gardening tools, inspecting rakes with deep suspicion.

Passing through the automatic sliding doors that screeched in the best horror movie tradition, we entered a huge hall where a handful of people — like a handful of olives rattling in a one-gallon jar — drifted about, two-thirds of them grumpy staff members.

A security lady, glasses glinting ominously, gave us a distinctly unkind look. For some reason, I felt an urge to turn out my empty pockets and apologize.

Remembering my long-suffering aloe, which has been hinting for about five years that it might be nice to repot it sometime, I budded off (ha-ha) from my colleagues and steered toward the shelves with flower pots. Since I was already here, I might as well get one — otherwise I’d never do it.

There were pots galore — for every taste, color, shape, material, and price… And there I stood, surrounded by this abundance, realizing I had absolutely no memory of what size pot I actually needed. I wanted to cry, call my mom, and go home.

Pulling myself together with an act of will, I studied the options and picked a pot that seemed about right — in the color “gray, like your life” — and trudged to bud back (ha-ha).

I found my colleagues near the pesticide section, enthusiastically discussing their effectiveness. I felt an even deeper respect for them — just in case.

We decided to wrap up our visit to “Greening” with a promenade around the endless tables of flowers for sale. My colleagues instantly switched to “I totally know plants” mode — and off they went.

First to be humiliated were the cacti and aloes, condemned for their typicality. Then the watering cans got criticized for being impractical. And then I got roasted myself, having dared to call a noble asparagus a “plebeian dill.” Hurtful.

I spent a long time looking at a lonely plant called Pilea depressa. There was something painfully familiar about it — atmospheric, relatable, almost totemic.

At the tables with cheerful violets and geraniums, I was hit by memories of innocent plant-refugees, gifted by relatives, who perished under my “it’ll-be-fine” supervision.

That, frankly, is the main reason I need plants of the “forget-about-it-for-a-month-and-it’s-already-conquered-half-the-room-and-plans-to-invade-your-neighbors” variety.

All those delicate little violets and blossoms die under my care — pointlessly and mercilessly. I feel bad committing floral genocide.

In the end, all went well. On my windowsill now stands an empty pot, waiting for its moment of glory. A purple marketplace courier is on its way with a bag of soil. My home aloe has found faith in the flower god.

Meanwhile, my colleagues had already made arrangements — they promised to give me, from their own private reserves, two varieties of aloe with unusual leaves.
Well, we’ll see. In my house, only the strong survive. Time will tell what those “unusual leaves” are really made of.

This text is a vivid example of intuitive narration, despite its seemingly sensory theme — a trip to a store to buy plant pots. Let’s break down why:

1. Neglect of specifics and abundance of metaphors and abstract generalizations

The text is literally overflowing with imagery and metaphor:

“Inevitable like growing up, relentless like the end of life” — here, “floriculture” is immediately given a grand, hyperbolic meaning.
A sensory type would phrase it more simply: “Sooner or later everyone ends up taking care of plants.”

“A handful of olives rattling in a one-gallon jar” — an unusual comparison for a sensory thinker, since they tend to describe specific details of the environment (e.g., “The hall was rather empty, but a few shoppers wandered by the shelves”).

Notice how often the author uses vague, generalized formulations:

“There were pots galore — for every taste, color, shape, material, and price…”
A sensory description would be more concrete: “Most of the pots were ceramic, in pastel tones.”

“My colleagues switched to ‘I-totally-know-plants’ mode and off they went” — what exactly did they say? What were they discussing? We don’t know, because for an intuitive type, those specifics don’t matter — what matters in this case is the ironic observation itself.

In similar texts, sensory types tend to emphasize factual descriptions of the setting — for example, what kinds of plants were on the shelves, what materials the pots were made of, how soft the lighting was.

2. Narrative logic — leaps, abstractions, associations

The text isn’t built along an observable, sensory sequence (“we entered > we chose > we bought > we left”) but follows intuitive leaps — full of lyrical digressions and unexpected parallels:

It begins with global philosophizing about “floriculture as destiny.”
Then it jumps abruptly from colleagues to depressed plants, from pots to pesticides.
Finally, it ends with musings about natural selection among plants and the “flower god.”

Intuitive Types Subgroups

Clubs

'Romance Style' Small Group

Stimulus Seeking

Perceptual Groups

Project Groups

Source: S. Ionkin