Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 4: The Mysteries Concluded, Part 4
Introduction: The ancient mysteries reach their pinnacle as the soul ascends to divine union, becoming an intellectual beacon of eternal wisdom. This section unveils the final Theurgic rites, uniting the soul with the divine through love, faith, and harmony.
The Divine Union Through Theurgic Rites
Theurgic rites transcend mere intellectual thought, uniting the soul with the divine through sacred media. Iamblichus explains, “Divine union is not achieved by thought alone, as theorists might assume, but through ineffable rites and symbols known only to the gods. These Synthemata, divine aids, perform their work autonomously, moved by the gods’ will, not our intellect.” The Chaldaic Oracle declares, “I revolve these in my mind’s sacred temples, extending sparkling fire to put the symbol of variety into the mind, guiding it to the incorruptible pattern of the divine.”
These rites awaken the soul’s latent wisdom, transforming it into an “Intellectual World.” Porphyry notes, “When the soul’s inferior powers align with reason, they venerate it, dissolving their own motions in its presence.” This harmony, unlike the anarchy of natural life where selfish motives dominate, establishes a divine monarchy where all faculties follow the rational will, mirroring the cosmic order.
The Fire of Divine Wisdom
Sendivogius describes fire as the purest element, infused with divine majesty, carrying the soul’s rational essence. “God created the soul as a tree of knowledge, clouded by oblivion. Only through purity can it approach the divine fire, which no mortal eye can penetrate without dissolution.” This fire, calm and vital in its divine state, moves only by God’s will, stirring the soul’s faculties into universal harmony, as a king’s court moves with his command.
The alchemists’ “Salt of Wisdom” and “Mercury of Philosophers” is this purified essence, the soul’s hidden light. Morien tells King Calid, “This mastery is God’s secret, entrusted to prophets whose souls rest in paradise.” The soul, purified through rites, becomes a radiant vessel, reflecting the divine unity that sustains all creation.
The Final Contemplation
The initiated, perfected through Theurgic rites, contemplate the divine unity, the “Paternal Port.” Proclus explains, “The soul, assimilated to the intelligible universe, meets the Maker, united through intellectual vision, not opinion or syllogistic thought. This is the discovery of the Father—light conjoined with light, more beautiful than Elysium’s visions.” The soul, shedding multifarious knowledge, rests in silent faith, love, and hope, uniting with the ineffable One.
Plato’s method of divine intuition—through love, hope, and faith—guides the soul to this unical silence. Proclus urges, “Remove all variety, let the universe be still within, and commune with the Ineffable.” This is the alchemical stone, the soul’s radiant essence, seated in its divine throne, harmonizing all creation in eternal light.
Closing: Chapter 4 concludes the mysteries, uniting the soul with the divine in a radiant intellectual vision. The journey’s transformative implications unfold further in our next post, revealing new depths of the Hermetic art.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
In short, even if the comparison limps and makes absolutely no claim to exactness, the brain is deceived and lied to and learns only later, after it has summed up what happened, that it was deceived.
But with that the refined cruelty is not yet at an end.
With the poorly functioning brain is still connected a cute stuff of conscience, trained for millennia to cause torment for the sins that nature commits.
He, he, a quite unbelievable refinement… But with that the thing is not yet at an end.
Through a peculiar trick nature has drilled into the fool of a human that it is a tremendous advantage to have brain and conscience.
For what distinguishes the human from the animal? The human knows what he does…
Falk listened. Won’t a laughing fit soon overwhelm him?
The human got the brain so that he might recognize God namely nature, thank him for his benefactions…
No! I must stop. Otherwise I really run the risk of getting laughing cramps.
By thunder! What a refined rogue trick. To be thanked for the brain, and on top of that for the conscience, this beautiful dung heap on which nature dumps its villainies.
No, no! I thank you for the brain, the conscience and such knowledge apparatuses. Oh, I would rather descend to the bacillus.
He destroys without torment and without pangs of conscience.
The clever Herr Professor who wanted to teach the human the overman! Well! he would go under on the second day from his excess of brain and conscience!
Falk actually saw himself on a stage, he found that not at all strange, on the contrary: very pleasant. He loved to be noticed. Then he had the pose of a significant person, no, no pose: only a quite natural appearance of a significant person, just as the audience wishes to see a significant person.
By the way, esteemed audience, I commit the nonsense of personifying nature, and that is the first step to forming a God. He giggled. The God, ha, ha, ha, that the liberal, free-thinking bourgeoisie had abolished. The free-thinking audience—oh God, I suffocate,—German free-thinking with twenty seats in the Reichstag.
No! How he could amuse himself royally!
He suddenly started. Otherwise he used to calm himself with such self-conversations, to forget, but this time it didn’t succeed. On the contrary: the unrest seized him anew, surprisingly, from behind, with new violence.
But to the devil, what then? What will, what can happen?
He had to absolutely prevent it. He must not go under. Not yet. No, he had to hold Czerski back, explain the whole thing to him in detail, prove with reasons, set forth with invincible arguments that he was completely in error if he wanted to hold him responsible. That was ridiculous. If he wanted to punish the lie, he had to somehow get at nature and damage her… Yes, he had to convince the stupid Czerski that he had indeed acted as a knowing tool, but absolutely without any responsibility, something like a bacillus or something similar.
Yes, make clear, convince… perhaps in the following way:
Falk coughed. He clearly saw Czerski opposite him. Strange this hallucinatory quality of his thoughts. That is naturally the beginning of the end. Diagnostically very valuable these pronounced hallucinations that do not disturb at all. See, dear Czerski, I am now a thousand times calmer than a few hours ago… Yes, naturally.
Again he drank a full glass.
Are you impatient, Czerski? Well, we can begin. I am not in a hurry because I must touch on certain intimate things that thinking about is absolutely no pleasure.
You wrinkle your forehead. But my God, don’t you have any interest in psychological analyses? Regret, regret… I am a quite engaged soul researcher… He, he, he… I believe I committed all my villainies, as you like to call my actions, out of a certain psychological curiosity, a curiosity that for example distinguished the illustrious spirit of the liberal bourgeoisie, Herr Hippolyte Taine. You know, the gentleman who wanted to set up a distillery for virtues. Splendid idea, to produce virtues in the same masses as vitriol. He, he, he… That’s how the liberal spirits are!… Oh, oh, what they don’t all know and can do! But please, sit down, otherwise your knees will dissolve, as Homer says. A cigarette perhaps? Maybe a glass of cognac? You don’t drink? Yes, naturally, you are a philanthropist, and as such you walk on the highest heights of humanity, thus disdain the bodily pleasures. Ha, ha, ha… Now excuse me, don’t take it badly. I just cannot understand how a person who has a brain can get along without alcohol… You violate a natural compensation duty.
Why? Why? But that is quite clear. The primeval human, the brainless human, thus a Homo who is not yet sapiens, and consequently not capable of regulating his feelings, is subject spontaneously to certain emotional outbursts that one calls enthusiasm, ecstasy, suggestibility etc. It is a process that has certain similarity with so-called pathological processes, thus for example a mania. Something seizes the brain with terrible violence, makes blind to all reasons, incapable of any calculation, one becomes like a bull with a blinker tied on. But this ecstatic blindness gives an unheard-of power that actually created our civilization. See, this fanatical, straight-line blindness drove the masses to Jerusalem, it kindled the religious wars, it stormed Bastilles, won constitutions, it erected barricades and secured impunity for the roguish press pirates… That is the enthusiasm of rage that gave a Samson the power to put a whole army of Philistines to flight with a donkey’s jawbone and on the other hand brought Herr
Ravachol to the idea of transporting pious bourgeois souls to Abraham’s bosom: the bourgeois love the almighty Lord, they should thank Ravachol that they so suddenly get to behold the face of God in joy… Oh, oh—you laugh, Herr Czerski, one didn’t suspect you of anarchistic hobbies for nothing.
So this enthusiasm is an extremely important factor in nature’s household, but we are no longer capable of it. The sober reason of the free-thinking bourgeoisie has killed it. But we, yes we have the obligation to be guardians of this holy enthusiasm. But how to produce it if it is not there? Naturally through alcohol. See, Suvorov, he understood it. His armies got as much to drink before every battle as they wanted, that’s why they performed miracles of bravery… the Prussian war ministry should consider this circumstance.
I babble, you say? That is very stupidly said. You are probably also such a liberal brain to whom the small things appear ridiculous? But we came off our main theme. So Herr Taine, isn’t it? He has quite the same psychological curiosity as I… Do you know how he does it? He is in a society. He sees a person who has a character head, character head I read namely twice daily in the Berliner Tageblatt. The organ of the liberal bourgeoisie says it of every minister, provided he resembles a sheep. Otherwise it only says sharply cut profile, as if carved from marble, sometimes also antique etc. Herr Taine sees the sheep face. He immediately becomes distracted. He wanders around like a lunatic until he suddenly steps on the feet of the character head in question. But one knows that it is Herr Taine, and one is very pleased about it. Herr Taine notes in his notebook. First quality: great gentleness. Actual milieu: end of the eighteenth century.
That bores you, Herr Czerski? Well I only wanted to prove to you that my psychological method differs essentially from Taine’s.
So I am a married man. Happy? No! Unhappy? No! What then?
But do you really not want to drink a glass of cognac? It is good when one is nervous. That dampens the depressive states, increases the life energy, makes the whole organism more capable of performance.
“You don’t want to? Well, then your health.”
Falk drank.
“Hm, hm… How should I even begin?” He walked up and down.
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 4: The Mysteries Concluded, Part 2
Introduction: The ancient mysteries culminate in the soul’s radiant ascent to divine union, transforming it into a vessel of eternal wisdom. This section explores the Elysian Fields, where the purified soul merges with the divine, guided by sacred rites and illuminated by love’s harmony.
The Elysian Ascent
Virgil’s Aeneid depicts Aeneas entering “joyful places, green groves, and blessed abodes, bathed in ethereal purple light, with their own sun and stars.” This Elysian realm, the alchemists’ garden, is a divine meadow of ideas where the soul, purified, finds its true home. Flammel describes it: “The philosophers’ garden, where the sun lingers with sweet dew, bears trees and fruits nourished by pleasant meadows. Seek the mountain of the seven metals, where a royal herb triumphs—mineral, vegetable, saturnine.” Vaughan adds, “This delicate region, the rendezvous of spirits, lies in heaven’s suburbs, where ideas descend and take form.”
This is the “Pratum” of the Oracle, the enclosed garden of Solomon, where divine light restores the soul’s harmony. Heraclitus notes, “We live their death, and die their life,” as the soul, dead to earthly senses, awakens in divine consciousness. The Rosicrucian text speaks of “seven mystic mountains” where roses and lilies bloom, the Sapphiric Mine’s tincture purifying the soul’s chaotic essence into a radiant vessel.
The Vision of Divine Wisdom
Proclus explains, “The plain of truth expands to intelligible light, splendid with divine illuminations. The meadow is life’s prolific power, generating all forms and reasons.” This Elysian state, the alchemists’ “Athanor” or furnace, kindles a new world within the soul. St. Augustine describes three visions: external (sensory), imaginative (internal), and anagogic (intellectual), where the soul, purified, beholds divine light. Porphyry likens it to a fountain scattering streams inward, uniting the self-knowing and self-known in eternal harmony.
Apuleius’ encounter with Isis reveals this truth: “I am nature, parent of all, queen of elements, supreme divinity. I rule the heavens, seas, and realms below, venerated in manifold forms. Moved by your prayers, I am present, bringing a salutary day. Dedicate your life to me, and you will live gloriously under my protection, adoring me in the Elysian Fields.” The soul, shedding its beastly guise through sacred rites, becomes a vessel of divine light, extending life beyond fate through obedience and chastity.
The Purified Soul’s Triumph
The soul, purified in the mysteries, becomes a “gas-lamp” of divine light, not a mere crystal but a vessel sustaining eternal flame. Apuleius continues, “You roll the heavens, illuminate the sun, govern the world, and tread on Tartarus. Stars, gods, and elements obey your decree.” This universal nature, accessible through purification, restores the soul’s original light, granting wisdom, health, and eternal life. The alchemists’ stone, born of this process, is the soul’s radiant essence, uniting all in divine love.
Closing: Chapter 4 concludes the mysteries, unveiling the soul’s ascent to divine union in the Elysian Fields, radiant with eternal wisdom. The journey into this sacred art’s implications continues, promising further revelations in our next post.
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 3: The Mysteries Continued, Part 4 and Chapter 4: The Mysteries Concluded, Part 1
Introduction: The ancient mysteries guide the soul through chaos to divine wisdom, culminating in a radiant ascent. This section completes the purificative descent and begins the journey to divine union, unveiling the soul’s eternal essence.
Chapter 3: The Divine Light Revealed
Psellus distinguishes two visions in the mysteries: “suspection,” deceptive apparitions born of the soul’s passions, and “superinspection,” the perception of pure, formless divine light. The Chaldaic Oracle advises, “When you see a fire without form, shining through the world’s depths, hear its voice.” This sacred light, untainted by illusion, is the soul’s true essence, as an Indian text echoes: “Know all appearances as the mind’s delusion; the First Cause is in all yet beyond all.” The Zohar and Deuteronomy warn against imaging this formless divinity, emphasizing its transcendence.
Modern skeptics dismiss these visions as mere astronomical displays, but the ancients saw them as profound truths, not trifling shows. Proclus describes the soul’s awe before this light: “Beauty astonishes, converting the soul to itself, revealing the divine within the temple’s sanctum.” Apuleius recounts, “I saw the sun at midnight, adoring the gods above and below,” a vision beyond sensory grasp. Plato adds, “A sudden light, like a leaping fire, kindles in the soul, nourishing itself.” This is the alchemical stone, the “crystalline rock” of the Apocalypse, radiating divine wisdom.
Vaughan calls this the “star-fire of nature,” ignited by uniting heaven and earth, transforming the soul into a “new world.” The alchemists’ “Prester” or “Saturnian Salt” is this fiery spirit, the eternal center of life, as John’s Gospel proclaims: “In Him was Life, and the Life was the Light of men.” This light, hidden in darkness, is known only to those who subdue their will to divine wisdom, achieving the alchemical perfection that multiplies the soul’s divine essence.
Chapter 4: The Ascent to the Elysian Fields
Hercules’ final labor in the Hesperidian region symbolizes the soul’s ascent to divine union. Olympiodorus explains, “The Islands of the Blessed, rising above the sea, represent a state transcending earthly life—the Elysian Fields.” Hercules, dragging Cerberus from hell, liberates the soul through a threefold evolution, freeing it from sensory bonds to live in divine light. His golden apples, rewards of sacred labors, signify the soul’s perfected wisdom, unlike Theseus, detained by earthly passions.
The descent to Hades is easy, but the ascent is arduous, as Homer’s cave in Ithaca illustrates: “The northern gate is for souls descending to generation; the southern, for immortals ascending to divinity.” Only a purified, immortal essence can pass through this narrow gate, achieving eternal consciousness.
Closing: Chapter 3 concludes the mysteries’ purificative descent, revealing the soul’s divine light through chaos. Chapter 4 begins the ascent to divine union, promising further revelations of the soul’s eternal essence in our next post.
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 3: The Mysteries Continued, Part 3
Introduction: The ancient mysteries guide the soul through a transformative descent into its chaotic depths, purifying it to unite with divine wisdom. This section unveils the perilous journey past deceptive visions, culminating in the revelation of the soul’s true essence.
The Transformative Descent
The mysteries’ purificative rites lead the soul into Tartarus, a realm of primal chaos, described by Virgil as a dark cave where “the ground trembles, hills shake, and dogs howl as the Goddess approaches.” This is the soul’s confrontation with its deepest, unpurified essence, the alchemists’ “Black Saturn” or “hidden Stone,” fetid yet vital. A Rosicrucian allegory illustrates: “At the earth’s center lies a mountain, invisible, guarded by beasts and birds. A great wind shakes it, an earthquake overthrows debris, and a fire consumes earthly rubbish, revealing a treasure—the exalted tincture that could turn the world to gold if it were worthy.”
This descent, though fraught with terror, is essential. The initiate, armed with rational will, faces lions, dragons, and monstrous apparitions—illusions of the soul’s unpurified spirit. As the biblical account of Elijah echoes, “The Lord is not in the wind, earthquake, or fire, but in the still, small voice that follows.” After the chaos, a great calm reveals the day-star, dispelling darkness and unveiling the soul’s divine essence.
The Alchemical Purification
Hermes instructs, “Take the watery, corrupted nature, a coal holding fire, and purify its redness until it shines.” This purification, visiting “the interiors of the earth rectifying,” transforms the chaotic spirit into the philosopher’s stone, a medicine for life. Porphyry declares, “The purified soul must associate with its Generator, gaining scientific knowledge of true being.” Plato warns that without firm reason, the soul risks being overwhelmed in Hades, absorbed by delusions. Only by resisting these temptations can it ascend to Elysium’s divine light.
Alchemists describe this spirit as a “thick fire” imprisoned in incombustible moisture, needing dissolution to reveal its radiant core. Vaughan notes, “This mineral nature, ever-changing like clouds, is persecuted by reason’s light, revealing a starry seed, heavy yet luminous.” This is the “Salt of Saturn,” the ancient Demogorgon, a primal essence that, when purified, becomes the soul’s eternal source.
The Final Initiation
Stobaeus records, “In death and initiation, the mind is agitated with errors, wanderings, and darkness. On the verge, all is horror—trembling, sweating, affrightment. Then, a divine light shines, revealing flowery meadows and sacred visions. Free and crowned, the initiate walks among the blessed.” This mirrors alchemy’s “happy gate of blackness,” where dissolution reveals the soul’s true life. Porphyry explains, “Nature binds the body to the soul, but the soul can dissolve its own bond, returning to its divine source without destroying the body.”
The initiate, guided by the “golden bough” of rational intellect, navigates this chaos to unite with the divine. Apuleius recounts, “I approached death’s threshold, trod Proserpine’s realm, and returned through all elements, seeing the sun at midnight and adoring the gods. Though heard, you must remain ignorant of these truths.” This ineffable experience, known only through direct participation, reveals the soul as both seeker and sought, united with its divine source.
Closing: This section unveils the mysteries’ descent through chaos, purifying the soul to unite with divine wisdom. The journey toward this ineffable truth continues, promising deeper revelations of the Theurgic art in our next post.
Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries
Chapter 3: The Mysteries Continued, Part 2
Introduction: The ancient mysteries guide the soul through a perilous descent into its chaotic depths, purifying it to reveal divine wisdom. This section explores the transformative journey past deceptive apparitions, led by the rational intellect’s golden light.
The Soul’s Perilous Descent
Plato likens the soul’s descent into the “oblivious realms of generation” to an earthquake, shaking its core with nature’s convulsions. Psellus describes two types of visions in the Chaldaic rites: “suspections,” mere apparitions of light or figures, and true divine revelations. The Oracle warns, “If you see such a light, do not heed it or its voice, for these are false, born of the soul’s passions.” These apparitions, like the poet’s satyric Pan in monstrous disguises, affright seekers, as Virgil depicts Aeneas, trembling yet resolute, facing shadowy forms.
This “pneumatic vehicle,” the soul’s imaginative essence, condenses like clouds, forming deceptive images—demons, beasts, or human shapes—that haunt the mysteries’ initiatory stage. Proclus explains, “Before the gods’ presence, terrestrial demons appear, drawing unpurified souls to matter, separating them from truth.” Only through purification do initiates enter the temple’s inner sanctum, receiving divine illumination and shedding their illusory garments.
The Alchemical Purification
The alchemists’ “Mercury of Philosophers” emerges from this purified spirit, freed from the chaotic “Black Saturn” or “Urinus Saturni,” a fetid, heavy essence that Sendivogius uses to nurture the soul’s solar and lunar aspects. This is the “mineral tree,” bearing transformative waters, as another adept notes: “From my sea rise clouds, bearing blessed waters to irrigate the earth and bring forth herbs and flowers.” Hermes urges, “Extract the shadow and obscurity from the ray, purifying the watery, corrupted nature until its redness shines.” This process, visiting “the interiors of the earth rectifying,” yields the true medicine—the philosopher’s stone.
The soul, likened to Plato’s marine Glaucus, deformed by foreign weeds, appears beastly until purified. Vaughan describes this chaotic essence as ever-changing, like clouds driven by wind, persecuted by the “fire of nature”—the rational light of the mysteries. Raymond Lully calls it “fugitive spirits condensed in monstrous shapes,” moving unpredictably, yet holding the seed of divine wisdom when purified.
The Rosicrucian Allegory
A Rosicrucian letter illustrates this journey: “In the earth’s center lies a mountain, small yet great, soft yet hard, far yet near, invisible by divine providence. It holds treasures beyond worldly value, guarded by cruel beasts and ravenous birds. Only the worthy, through self-labor, can reach it. Go at midnight, armed with courage and prayer, following a guide who appears unbidden.” This guide, a divine light, leads to the mountain’s heart, where the soul confronts its chaotic depths, requiring heroic resolve to prevail.
Closing: This section unveils the mysteries’ descent into the soul’s chaotic depths, purifying deceptive apparitions to reveal divine wisdom. The transformative journey continues, promising deeper revelations of the Theurgic art in our next post.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
You know better than I what happens then, how to bring about with humans what you have already done with monkeys and guinea pigs. Get everything ready, ready for the moment when the murderer’s bleeding head springs into the basket!” He jumped up, leaned over the table, looked across at his uncle with intense forceful eyes. The Privy Councilor caught his gaze, parried it with a squint like a curved dirty scimitar parries a supple foil. “What then nephew?” he said. “And then after the child comes into the world? What then?” The student hesitated, his words dripped slowly, falling, “Then– we–will–have–a–magickal–creature.” His voice swung lightly, yielding and reverberating like musical tones. “Then we will see what truth there is in the old legend, get a glimpse into the deepest bowels of nature.” The Privy Councilor opened his lips to speak but Frank Braun wouldn’t let him get a word in. “Then we can prove whether there is something, some mysterious power that is stronger than all the laws of science that we know. We can prove whether this life is worth the trouble to live– especially for us.” “Especially for us?” the professor repeated. Frank Braun said, “Yes Uncle Jakob–especially for us! For you and for me–and the few hundred other people that stand as Masters over their lives–and then prove it even for the enslaved, the ones on the street, for the rest of the herd.” Then suddenly, abruptly, he asked, “Uncle Jakob, do you believe in God?” The Privy Councilor clicked his lips impatiently, “Do I believe in God? What does that have to do with it?” But his nephew pressed him, wouldn’t let him brush it away, “Answer me Uncle Jakob, answer. Do you believe in God?” He bent down closer to the old man, held him fast in his gaze. The Privy Councilor said, “What do you mean boy? According to the understanding that everyone else uses, what I recognize as true and believe is most certainly not God. There is only a feeling–but that feeling is so uncontrollable, something so–” “Yes, yes, uncle,” cried the student. “What about this feeling?” The professor resisted like always, moved back and forth in his chair. “Well, if I must speak candidly–there are times–very rare–with long stretches in between–” Frank Braun cried, “You believe–You do believe in God! Oh, I knew it! All the Brinkens do–all of them up to you.” He threw up his head, raised his lips high showing rows of smooth shiny teeth, and pushed out every word forcefully. “Then you will do it Uncle Jakob. Then you must do it and I don’t need to speak with you any more about it. It is something that has been given to you, one out of a million people. It is possible for you–possible for you to play at being God! If your God is real and lives he must answer you for your impertinence, for daring to do such a thing!” He became quiet, went back and forth with large strides through the long room. Then he took up his hat and went up to the old man. “Good night Uncle Jakob,” he said. “Will you do it?” He reached out his hand to him but the old man didn’t see it. He was staring into space, brooding. “I don’t know,” he answered finally. Frank Braun took the alraune from the table, shoved it into the old man’s hands. His voice rang mocking and haughty. “Here, consult with this!” But the next moment the cadence of his voice was different. Quietly he said, “Oh, I know you will do it.” He strode quickly to the door, stopped there a moment, turned around and came back. “Just one more thing Uncle Jakob, when you do it–” But the Privy Councilor burst out, “I don’t know whether I’ll do it.” “Ok,” said the student. “I won’t ask you any more about it. But just in case you should decide to do it–will you promise me something?” “What?” the professor inquired. He answered, “Please don’t let the princess watch!” “Why not?” the Privy Councilor asked. Frank Braun spoke softly and earnestly, “Because–because these things–are sacred.” Then he left. He stepped out of the house and crossed the courtyard. The servant opened the gate and it rattled shut behind him. Frank Braun walked down the street, stopped before the shrine of the Saint and examined it. “Oh, Blessed Saint,” he said. “People bring you flowers and fresh oil for your lamps. But this house doesn’t care for you, doesn’t care if your shelter is preserved. You are regarded only as an antique. It is well for you that the folk still believe in you and in your power.” Then he sang softly, reverently: “John of Nepomuk Protector from dangerous floods. Protect my house! Guard it from rising waters. Let them rage somewhere else. John of Nepomuk Protect my house!” “Well old idol,” he continued. “You have it easy protecting this village from dangerous floods since the Rhine lays three quarters of an hour from here and since it is so regular and runs between stone levies. But try anyway, John of Nepomuk. Try to save this house from the flood that shall now break over it! See, I love you, Saint of stone, because you are my mother’s patron Saint. She is called Johanna Nepomucema, also called Hubertina so she will never get bitten by a mad dog. Do you remember how she came into this world in this house, on the day that is sacred to you? That is why she carries your name, John of Nepomuk! And because I love her, my Saint–I will warn you for her sake. You know that tonight another Saint has come inside, an unholy one. A little manikin, not of stone like you and not beautifully enshrined and dressed in garments–It is only made of wood and pathetically naked. But it is as old as you, perhaps even older and people say that it has a strange power. So try, Saint Nepomuk, give us a demonstration of your power! One of you must fall, you or the manikin. It must be decided who is Master over the house of Brinken. Show us, my Saint, what you can do.” Frank Braun bowed, paid his respects, crossed himself, laughed shortly and went on with quick strides through the street. He came up to a field, breathed deeply the fresh night air and began walking toward the city. In an avenue under blooming chestnuts he slowed his steps, strolled dreamily, softly humming as he went along. Suddenly he stopped, hesitated a moment. He turned around, looked quickly both ways, swung up onto a low wall, sprang down to the other side and, ran through a still garden up to a wide red villa. He stopped there, pursed his lips and his wild short whistle chased through the night, twice, three times, one right after the other. Somewhere a hound began to bark. Above him a window softly opened, a blonde woman in a white nightgown appeared. Her voice whispered through the darkness. “Is that you?” And he said, “Yes, yes!” She scurried back into the room, quickly came back again, took her handkerchief, wrapped something in it and threw it down. “There my love–the key! But be quiet–very quiet! Don’t wake up my parents.” Frank Braun took the key out, climbed the small marble steps, opened the door and went inside. While he groped softly and cautiously upward in the dark his young lips moved: “John of Nepomuk Protector from dangerous floods. Protect me from love! Let it strike another Leave me in earthly peace John of Nepomuk Protect me from love!”
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Yes, you are very inquisitive, Herr Editor. You surely don’t demand that I deliver my political credo here; but we can look at the things from a bird’s-eye view.
I understand the anarchist propaganda of the deed, for that’s what this is about here, very well; I understand it as an unheard-of indignation against social justice.
Yes, we the sated, we who have the privilege of doing no work or at least choosing a work that is a pleasure to us, we call it justice when our brothers in Christ must rise at four or five in the morning, day-labor twelve hours uninterrupted, serve us the privileged. Well, I need hardly list for you which things we consider socially just. But you must understand that there are people who cannot reconcile themselves to it, who rebel against such justice in naive rage. Well, the rage can, if favored by certain circumstances, such as, for example, futile job searching, thus unemployment, or hunger or
illness, rise to a height that it simply tips over into madness.
And now take a person who day in, day out sees such examples of unheard-of social cruelty, take a person who is witness to how the workers in a strike riot are shot dead like dogs, how they are starved out by mighty capitals and crippled in their justified resistance: don’t you believe that such examples of our social justice suffice to produce in a person who has a strong heart a vengeance that blindly wants to—must!—sate itself on the first best of the socially privileged?
Our heart is dulled, sir; our heart is weak and narrow-minded, as our interests are; it has eye and ear only for our own petty conditions. But take a person who is strong and exuberant and childlike enough to feel himself a whole world—yes take for example that Henry: what drove him to his murder acts?
A heart, a great heart, whose power we dulled, small egoists cannot comprehend! A heart that answered with terrible resonance to all the misery, all the powerlessness all around!
He became a criminal, certainly; but he was no ordinary criminal. He was a criminal out of indignation, an outrage-criminal. That is a great difference. In effect, of course, it comes to the same; but we are surely advanced enough in our judgment that we begin to form categories not according to success, but according to motives.
A group had formed around Falk, listening attentively.
The editor now saw the opportunity as favorable to expose Falk before the reactionary elements.
“So you completely excuse the anarchist murder acts…” The editor grinned maliciously… “So you would have pardoned Henry without further ado?”
Falk surveyed the people standing around him with his eyes and said very calmly.
“No, I wouldn’t have done that. I myself belong to the privileged, thus risk in the next moment being blown into the air by an explosion, thus find myself in a kind of self-defense that makes Henry’s death indispensable. At the same time, however, I say to myself: from my standpoint I am right, but Henry was right from his. He perished through social justice or rather social arbitrariness, which alone gives power and right. But you can surely imagine that social arbitrariness could just as well take Henry’s side, and then Henry would be praised as a great hero. Take, for example, a war: isn’t it a mighty mass murder? But to murder in war is—sweet and honorable, as that Roman sings.
Well; that doesn’t belong to the matter. But I ask you not to misunderstand me. We see the things from a bird’s-eye view. I only say: I can understand such indignation.
For we all have the psychic germs in us from which later the most intense forms of murder, robbery, etc. can develop. That they don’t do it is pure chance. By the way, I believe that we can all understand such indignation. How often has not each of us already given himself to this feeling!
Falk’s sharp eyes discovered the director, who stood a little apart.
“Look, gentlemen, for example, two days ago I went so far in my indignation that I offered slaps in the face to the so highly esteemed, so well-deserved person of the Herr Director.”
Those around involuntarily looked at the director with a discreet smile.
“Yes, I sincerely regret it; but in the moment of an intense emotional outburst I did it.”
For what? “Yes, gentlemen, if one is indignant about a man’s writings, one really doesn’t go to the school and let one’s rage run free in somewhat uncivilized expressions before stupid boys.
No, a gentleman doesn’t do that. Perhaps that’s the custom here in the country, but I am accustomed to European customs.
Right, Herr Editor: You are right to remind me of the résumé.
The résumé? Hm, yes, the résumé. I understand anarchism as propaganda of the deed, I can explain it to myself. I can examine, analyze, understand all the psychic components from which the idea of political murder develops, one after the other, just as I can understand, analyze, and observe the affect forms that in their heightened intensity become ordinary madness, a mania, a melancholy, etc. etc.
No, nothing could be done with Falk; he was slippery as an eel. The editor withdrew ashamed.
Marit had stood at Erik’s side the whole time.
She felt so close to him; so close. She was happy and proud. He turned to her so often, almost spoke to her.
Yes, he had the beautiful, great, splendid heart he spoke of. He had the proud heart of indignation and courage: before a whole world he confesses openly and courageously what he thinks!
And how beautiful he was in this atmosphere of fat, stupid people. How splendid his intellectual face and the fine, discreet gestures with which he accompanied his words.
A mighty jubilation filled her whole soul, the feeling of boundless devotion. She trembled, and her face colored purple-red.
Falk disappeared for a moment.
“Shall we not go?” he whispered in Marit’s ear when he returned. Marit rose.
It was the custom in this house to leave without the usual farewell formulas. The district commissioner was nervous and loved it when people came and went without a word.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Translating Alraune “Deine Tage sind wie die schweren Trauben blauer Glyzenen, tropfen hinab zum weichen Teppich: so schreitet mein leichter Fuss weich dahin durch die sonnenglitzernden Laubengänge deiner sanften Tage.” Your days are like the heavy (grapes/bunches/clusters) blue Glyzenen, dropping down to soft carpet: so stride my light feet softly in them through the sun glistening arbor your gentle days. What the hell does “Glyzenen” mean? Look it up in the dictionary; it’s not there. Google it on the internet; it’s not there. Try some online German-English dictionaries; it’s not there… What did Endore write? “glycinias” Well, what does that mean? Look it up in the dictionary; it’s not there. Google it on the internet; ah, there it is–Archaic German word for wisteria–not used anymore– Maybe back when he translated it some old Germans were still alive that knew the meaning of the word. [Editor’s note: S. Guy Endore translated a 1929 version of Alraune for John Day Publishing Company] What is “Wisteria”? Google it on the internet–Oh, what beautiful thick flowers. We don’t have those here in northern Minnesota. Now let’s get back to the translation. “Dropping down to soft carpet?” That can’t be right. Wisteria grows outside and doesn’t fall onto the carpet! When those thick blossoms fall they will form a carpet on the ground though! Let’s try it like this: Your days are like the heavy blue clusters of wisteria dropping down to form a soft carpet. My feet stride lightly and softly through them as I enter the glittering sunlight in the arbor of your gentle days. Just for grins let’s see what Endore came up with. “Your days drop out of your life even as the heavy clusters of blue glycinias shed their blossoms one by one upon the soft carpet. And I tread lightly through the long, sunny arbors of your mild existence.” What the hell! That’s not even close! Where did he come up with that “days dropping” and “blossoms one by one” bit? None of that is in the text at all. Obviously he was embellishing a bit. (Something that Endore did quite a bit of.) Such was my experience with the very first pages of Alraune. But it was not my last. The John Day version of Alraune turned out to be very mangled and censored to boot. There are different types of censorship and I ran into most of them. Let’s take chapter five to give some brief examples. Now in the story Alraune’s father agrees to cooperate with the experiment in exchange for a couple bottles of whiskey the night before he is executed. Thus he is so drunk the next morning that they have to help him walk up to where the sentence of death is read to him. Suddenly he realizes what is about to happen, sobers up immediately, says “something” and begins to fight back. But first he utters a word–What is that word? It may give a clue to the entire incident. Let’s see how it really goes: She laughed, “No, certainly not. Well then –but reach me another slice of lemon. Thank you. Put it right there in the cup! Well then –he said, no –I can’t say it.” “Highness,” said the Professor with mild reproof. She said, “You must close your eyes first.” The Privy Councilor thought, “Old monkey!” but he closed his eyes. “Now?” he asked. She still hesitated, “I –I will say it in French –” “That’s fine, in French then!” He cried impatiently. Then she pressed her lips together, bent forward and whispered in his ear, “Merde!” Of course “Merde!” means “Shit!” in French. He said “Shit!”, sobered up and started fighting for his life! Let’s see what the John Day version did with it. She laughed. “Of course not. How silly. Well –just let me have a piece of lemon. Thanks –put it right into the cup! –Well, then, as I was saying –but no, really, I can’t tell you.” “Your Highness!” the Professor said in a tone of genial reproach. Then she said: “You’ll have to shut your eyes.” The Councilor thought to himself, “What an old ass.” But he closed his eyes. “Well,” he asked. But she resisted coyly. “I’ll –I’ll tell it to you in French.” “Very well then, Let it be –French!” he cried impatiently. She pursed her lips, bent her head to his and whispered the offending word into his ear. As you see, we don’t even get to know what the word was in the John Day edition and a subtle nuance has been lost. Still, you might think I am making mountains out of molehills. What difference does that little bit have to do with the story? Well let’s take a more substantial piece of censorship. Later in the same chapter almost one entire page of text has been censored. I won’t share it here because it will spoil the story but this entire section was omitted from the John Day version. Curiously enough Mahlon Blaine illustrated a portion of it which shows that he was familiar with it. It was translated but didn’t make it into the book. Something that is also missing in the John Day edition is much of the emotional content and beauty of the writing itself. Consider this paragraph at the end of chapter five: There is one other curious thing that remains in the story of these two people that without ever seeing each other became Alraune’s father and mother, how they were brought together in a strange manner even after their death. The Anatomy building janitor, Knoblauch, threw out the remaining bones and tatters of flesh into a common shallow grave in the gardens of the Anatomy building. It was behind the wall where the white roses climb and grow so abundantly. How heart wrenching and touching in its own way! Let’s see how the Endore version handles it: Again the bodies of these two, who, though they had never seen each other, yet became Alraune ten Brinken’s father and mother, were most curiously joined in still another manner after their death. Knoblauch, the old servant who cleaned out the dissecting rooms, threw the remaining bones and bits of flesh into a hastily prepared shallow ditch in the rear of the anatomy garden, back there against the wall, where the white hedge-roses grow so rankly. When you consider that nearly every single chapter of the John Day version has been gutted of its emotional content in one way or another, it is not surprising that it never became as popular with the reading public as it did it Germany. There it could be read in its entirety as the author intended. For the first time Alraune is now available to the English speaking world in an uncensored version that brings the life and emotion back into the story. I am proud to have been able to be a part in the restoration of this classic work of horror. A final note for those that have read the John Day version: What I read then is different, entirely different, has different meaning and I present her again like I find her, wild, hot –like someone that is full of all passions! –Joe E. Bandel
Arsis Will you deny, dear girl, that creatures can exist that are–not human–not animal–strange creatures created out of absurd thoughts and villainous desires? You know good, my gentle girl, good is the Law; good are all our rules and regulations; good is the great God that created these regulations, these rules, these laws. Good also is the man that values them completely and goes on his path in humility and patience in true obedience to our good God. But there is another King that hates good. He breaks the laws and the regulations. He creates – note this well – against nature. He is bad, is evil, and evil is the man that would be like him. He is a child of Satan. It is evil, very evil to go in and tamper with the eternal laws and with insolent hands rip them brazenly out of place. He is happy and able to do evil – because Satan, who is a tremendous King, helps him. He wants to create out of his prideful wish and will, wants to do things that shatter all the rules, that reverse natural law and stand it on its head. But he needs to be very careful: It is only a lie and what he creates is always lunacy and illusion. It towers up and fills the heavens – but collapses at the last moment and falls back to bury the arrogant fool that thought it up – His Excellency Jacob Ten Brinken, Dr. med., Ord. Professor and Counselor created a strange maiden, created her – against nature. He created her entirely alone, though the thought belonged to another. This creature, that was baptized and named Alraune, grew up and lived as a human child. Whatever she touched turned to gold, where ever she went became filled with wild laughter. But whoever felt her poisonous breath, screamed at the sins that stirred inside them and on the ground where her feet lightly tread grew the pale white flower of death. It struck dead anyone that was hers except Frank Braun, who first thought of her and gave her life. It’s not for you, golden sister, that I write this book. Your eyes are blue and kind. They know nothing of sins. Your days are like the heavy blue clusters of wisteria dropping down to form a soft carpet. My feet stride lightly and softly through them as I enter the glittering sunlight in the arbor of your gentle days. I don’t write this book for you my golden child, gracious sister of my dream filled days – But I write it for you, you wild sinful sister of my hot nights. When the shadows fall, when the cruel ocean devours the beautiful golden sun there flashes over the waves a swift poisonous green ray. That is Sins first quick laugh over the alarmed dying day. That’s when you extend yourself over the still water, raise yourself high and proclaim your arrival in blighted yellows, reds and deep violet colors. Your sins whisper through the deep night and vomit your pestilent breath wide throughout all the land. And you become aware of your hot touch. You widen your eyes, lift your perky young breasts as your nostrils quiver and you spread wide your fever moistened hands. Then the gentle civilized day splits away and falls to give birth to the serpent of the dark night. You extend yourself, sister, your wild soul, all shame, full of poison, and of torment and blood, and of kisses and desire, exultant outward in joyous abandon. I write about you, through all the heavens and hells – sister of my sins – I write this book for you!
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
II.
The next day, Falk returned to Elbsfeld.
He was friendly, acted as if he were very happy, but could only poorly conceal a nervous irritability.
“Isn’t that right? Nothing happened, did it? You’ve forgotten everything, surely forgotten. I don’t remember a thing.”
Marit lowered her eyes to the ground.
“Yes, sometimes it happens to me that for hours I lose consciousness, no, just the ability to remember, without actually being drunk. Of course, I drank a lot yesterday; but I didn’t seem drunk, did I? Or did I?—Well, then I just acted that way to say everything without consequence. I do that often, you know.”
Falk spoke excessively and quickly; he was very cheerful. Marit looked at him, astonished.
“What’s happened to make you so happy?”
“Oh, I got very good news from abroad; my book has been translated into French and received very favorably. And I’m genuinely delighted about it. I don’t admire the French at all, but Paris is the only cultural hub in Europe and the supreme tribunal in matters of taste…”
Yes, and then, you can’t imagine how unbelievably funny it was; I have to tell you.
Marit looked at him again; her astonishment grew. What was wrong with him?
“Did you know that Papa had me driven home in his carriage yesterday? Of course you know. So we’re driving, and driving very fast.
Suddenly, the horses stop, they rear, buck, and whinny like the stallions in fairy tales that suddenly get human voices. The driver whips them, but it only gets worse. He climbs down from the box, I crawl out of the carriage, we grab the horses by the reins and try to move them forward. It doesn’t work; the horses go wild, and the driver redundantly states that they won’t move. What in heaven’s name happened? It was so dark you could’ve slapped someone without being seen. Well, I gather my courage, groping cautiously along the road with hands and feet, and—believe me, I have enough personal courage to stir up the strangest scandals, but this time my heart just stopped. I tripped over a coffin and fell with my knees onto a corpse.”
Marit flinched.
“No, that’s not possible.”
“Yes, truly. In my fear, I yell for the driver, and in the same instant, of course, I’m ashamed of my human reflex, then I get another terrible jolt: I hear a clear, agonizing groan. I don’t remember ever feeling such a primal, unthinking shock.”
“But my God, you’re turning pale. No, calm down; the incredibly funny thing about the whole story is that it wasn’t a corpse, but a real live person who, drunk, came from the city with a coffin. Being drunk and very sleepy, he’d dragged the coffin off the cart, let the horse go, and lay down in the coffin to sleep off his drunkenness in style.”
Marit laughed heartily.
“That was really funny.”
“God, how it delights me that I made you laugh. No; you must laugh, laugh all day; yes, we’ll both be like children, and I’ll stay good, like now. Or am I not good? Yes, I am. Good; I’ll stay this good all day, never again as nasty as yesterday.”
Falk laughed at her, then grew serious; he looked at her deeply. God, how beautiful this human child was!
“Marit, my darling, I’d like to lay myself like a carpet under your feet, I’d like to…”
No, no; I won’t talk about these things anymore.
Falk’s eyes grew moist. Marit looked at his face with unspeakable love.
“He shouldn’t torment himself. No, she couldn’t bear to see that. It would make her sick. Did he want her to suffer?”
“No, no, Marit; I’m cheerful again.” Both fell silent.
“Would he like to take a walk along the lake?” “Yes, I’d love that.”
It was a glorious spring day.
A few days ago, everything had suddenly turned green. The trees sprouted leaf buds, the crops grew visibly, and the hills on the other side of the lake rose in the lush splendor of their young grass.
They walked, their feet sinking into the soft, damp sand.
Falk was silent; from time to time, he gathered stones from the shore and skipped them across the lake’s surface. His face grew graver and graver, like that of a man harboring deep sorrow.
He walked, staring ahead, then gathered flat pebbles again and threw them onto the water.
Marit looked at him, increasingly sad.
“No, he shouldn’t torment her like this. Why wouldn’t he speak? She couldn’t stand these dreadful pauses.”
“Yes, yes, yes…” Falk seemed to wake up. “Yes; right away, at once! Now, I’ll tell you wonderful things…”
He laughed exaggeratedly cheerful.
“So, about Paris, right? I met great people there. Do you even know what a great person is? You do? Well, then you probably don’t need explanations.
Great people are funny, Fräulein Marit, believe me; I’ve met a lot of them. Especially one, oh! He was remarkably peculiar. He hated women because he loved them so excessively. He was, forgive my expression, but it’s so apt, he was like a mad stallion.”
No, no, she shouldn’t hear such words from him anymore. No, not these stories. He knew: she was a good, devout Catholic, and that expression certainly didn’t come from the holy fathers.
“So, this great man—wait a moment, I won’t say anything bad; these things are just part of his psychology. He was remarkably paradoxical. He wanted to do everything differently from other people. So he said to himself: why look at the moon with a telescope, I can just as well do it with a microscope.
No, what a wonderful dress you’re wearing; oh, I love it so much; yes, remember, I loved it last spring too.
So, this great man takes a microscope, drips a drop of mercury on it, and looks at the moon. Now, the remarkable thing: the moon appears to him, naturally, in a strange, blurry form. But good God, the great man suddenly says: that spot there, isn’t that Europe? And that square thing, that’s Australia itself.
God, how wonderfully you laugh! You know, you get such a wonderful, delicate dimple around your eyes…”
No, you’re right: I’ll finish the story. So, this great man, with his characteristic genius, draws the following conclusion: the moon has no craters… You know the moon is supposed to have volcanoes? Well, this great man says there are no craters, no volcanoes: the moon is simply covered with a smooth layer of gravel, and our Earth is reflected in it.”
Marit laughed like a child.
“No, how funny you are about great people; don’t you have any respect for great people?”
“No, I truly don’t. I’ve seen them all, in tails and in their most intimate negligée, they’re always so endlessly ridiculous. They take themselves so terribly seriously and solemnly, strutting with the stiff grandeur of Gothic architecture. I always think of the ridiculous ape-men that the God of Herr Professor Nietzsche created to have fun at their seriousness.”
Falk mused… Only once had he seen a great man: one he bowed to.
“Oh, you absolutely have to tell me; it’s remarkably fascinating that you, Herr Erik Falk, were impressed by someone.”
“Yes, yes, that’s truly remarkable. I really don’t have megalomania—not yet; but I haven’t met anyone who could measure up to me. But this man was great. I met him in Kristiania. He looked small; he had an immensely quiet, shy, awkward manner and eyes, large, peculiar eyes. They didn’t have the obligatory probing, spying quality of other great people’s eyes. There was something in them of a bird’s broken wings, a great royal bird. He had a violin, and we went to an acquaintance’s together. There we drank Pjolter, a lot of Pjolter, as we, yes, we good Europeans usually drink. And then he started playing, in complete darkness; he had the great shyness of refined feeling. I’ve never heard such naked music. It was as if I had a trembling pigeon’s heart before me, warm, cut from the chest. There was something in the music of an unheard-of lament, tearing at the lungs and choking the throat. Marit, sweet, good Marit: and then you rose before me; from this lament of notes: you, you were this pigeon’s heart, this one vibrating note that cried for happiness and died in agony…”
Anarchistbanjo's World 