"For he who finds his evil course is ended
By having of his snout severely bended,
Along that path of virtue may be sent
Where virtuous snouts are seldom ever bent."
(Bunyip Bluegum, in The Magic Pudding by Norman Lindsey)
I needed a good laugh today. I offer this up in case you do, too.
(Alexander and Diogenes, Edwin Landseer, 1848)
If there is a short story more fine-tuned to my disposition than Lafcadio Hearn's Kimiko, I have not come across it. At once joyful and sad, I highly recommend it.
It can be found on Project Gutenberg: the first story in this collection or the last story in this one.
I'm not familiar with the artist generally, but I chanced across Lana Del Rey's Yes to Heaven, and dopey love song or not, it occurs to me that its lyrics are quite indicative of what our dæmons might sing to each of us:
Remember, the dæmon is our ontological prior: we exist as it's hypostasis. There is a real sense in which we are that of which it is always thinking.
In gratitude to the irresistible, all-connecting Mother of Necessity, I offer up a transcription of The Myth of Er excerpted from Book X of Plato's Republic. The main body of the text is from Benjamin Jowett's 1888 translation, but I have also collected Thomas Taylor's 1804 commentary (including his translation of Proclus' interesting and valuable commentary) on the text.
I've two transcriptions for you all today: Plato's (US Letter, A4) and Xenophon's (US Letter, A4) accounts of Socrates' trial. As always, these are in the public domain.
I was familiar with Plato's account but not Xenophon's, and given Xenophon's generally cool critical reception, I was surprised to find that he painted a, to my mind, much more mature, wise, and sympathetic picture of Socrates than Plato himself did.
Mnesarchos the Samian was in Delphi on a business trip, with his wife, who was already pregnant but did not know it. He consulted the Pythia about his voyage to Syria. The oracle replied that his voyage would be most satisfying and profitable, and that his wife was already pregnant and would give birth to a child surpassing all others in beauty and wisdom, who would be of the greatest benefit to the human race in all aspects of life. Mnesarchos reckoned that the god would not have told him, unasked, about a child, unless there was indeed to be some exceptional and god-given superiority in him. So he promptly changed his wife's name from Parthenis to Pythais, because of the birth and the prophetess. When she gave birth, at Sidon in Phœnicia, he called his son Pythagoras ["Pythia speaks"], because the child had been foretold by the Pythia.
(Iamblichus, On the Pythagorean Life, as translated by Gillian Clark)
Well, Chærephon, as you know, was very impetuous in all his doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether [...] there was anyone wiser than I was, and the Pythian prophetess answered that there was no man wiser. [...]
When I heard the answer, I said to myself, "What can the god mean? and what is the interpretation of this riddle? for I know that I have no wisdom, small or great. What can he mean when he says that I am the wisest of men? And yet he is a god and cannot lie; that would be against his nature." [...]
The truth is [...] that God only is wise; and in this oracle he means to say that the wisdom of men is little or nothing; he is not speaking of Socrates, he is only using my name as an illustration, as if he said, "He [...] is the wisest, who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth worth nothing."
(Socrates, as quoted by Plato, and as translated by Benjamin Jowett)
Apollo was consulted by Amelius, who desired to learn where Plotinus' soul had gone. [...]
Celestial! Man at first but now nearing the diviner ranks! the bonds of human necessity are loosed for you and, strong of heart, you beat your eager way from out the roaring tumult of the fleshly life to the shores of that wave-washed coast free from the thronging of the guilty, thence to take the grateful path of the sinless soul: where glows the splendour of God, where Right is throned in the stainless place, far from the wrong that mocks at law.
Oft-times as you strove to rise above the bitter waves of this blood-drenched life, above the sickening whirl, toiling in the mid-most of the rushing flood and the unimaginable turmoil, oft-times, from the Ever-Blessed, there was shown to you the Term still close at hand:
Oft-times, when your mind thrust out awry and was like to be rapt down unsanctioned paths, the Immortals themselves prevented, guiding you on the straightgoing way to the celestial spheres, pouring down before you a dense shaft of light that your eyes might see from amid the mournful gloom.
Sleep never closed those eyes: high above the heavy murk of the mist you held them; tossed in the welter, you still had vision; still you saw sights many and fair not granted to all that labour in wisdom's quest.
But now that you have cast the screen aside, quitted the tomb that held your lofty soul, you enter at once the heavenly consort: where fragrant breezes play, where all is unison and winning tenderness and guileless joy, and the place is lavish of the nectar-streams the unfailing Gods bestow, with the blandishments of the Loves, and delicious airs, and tranquil sky: where Minos and Rhadamanthus dwell, great brethren of the golden race of mighty Zeus; where dwell the just Æacus, and Plato, consecrated power, and stately Pythagoras and all else that form the Choir of Immortal Love, that share their parentage with the most blessed spirits, there where the heart is ever lifted in joyous festival.
O Blessed One, you have fought your many fights; now, crowned with unfading life, your days are with the Ever-Holy.
(Porphyry, Life of Plotinus, as translated by Stephen MacKenna)
[Julian] sent Oribasius, physician and quæstor, to rebuild the temple of Apollo at Delphi. Arriving there and taking the task in hand, he received an oracle from the dæmon:
Tell the emperor that the Daidalic hall has fallen.
No longer does Phœbus have his chamber, nor mantic laurel,
Nor prophetic spring, and the speaking water has been silenced.
(George Kedrenos, as translated by Timothy E. Gregory)
[Epitherses] said that once upon a time in making a voyage to Italy he embarked on a ship carrying freight and many passengers. It was already evening when, near the Echinades Islands, the wind dropped, and the ship drifted near Paxi. Almost everybody was awake, and a good many had not finished their after-dinner wine. Suddenly from the island of Paxi was heard the voice of someone loudly calling Thamus, so that all were amazed. Thamus was an Egyptian pilot, not known by name even to many on board. Twice he was called and made no reply, but the third time he answered; and the caller, raising his voice, said, "When you come opposite to Palodes, announce that Great Pan is dead." [...] Under the circumstances Thamus made up his mind that if there should be a breeze, he would sail past and keep quiet, but with no wind and a smooth sea about the place he would announce what he had heard. So, when he came opposite Palodes, and there was neither wind nor wave, Thamus from the stern, looking toward the land, said the words as he had heard them: "Great Pan is dead." Even before he had finished there was a great cry of lamentation, not of one person, but of many, mingled with exclamations of amazement. (Plutarch, The Obsolescence of Oracles)
...but is Great Pan dead? It occurs to me that the widespread panic we see all around us is, in fact, exactly what we should expect as the industrial age winds down and the earth rewilds...
There is a song that is lately becoming popular, called Ani Kuni. The first version I heard was a few years ago, a duet by Malte Marten of the German band Yatao and singer Mia Sommer:
More recently, French duo Polo & Pan released an upbeat version that topped the charts:
The song is apparently a prayer of the Arapaho tribe, indigenous to Colorado and Wyoming (and, surprisingly, headquarted not far from where I presently live). A translation of the lyrics runs like this:
Father, have mercy on me,
Father, have mercy on me;
Because I'm dying of thirst,
Because I'm dying of thirst;
Everything is gone—I have nothing to eat,
Everything is gone—I have nothing to eat.
("Father," in this context, should be understood as a creator deity.)
It is interesting to me that a plains hymn of desperation has made it's way halfway around the world and is becoming well-known in Europe. Two data points is too few to generalize from and the vagaries of global media notwithstanding, it's had me wondering about Europe's collective karma and if they will have cause to pray for food and water soon.
May the Gods grant each of us whatever it is we need.
May I be no man's enemy,
and may I be the friend of that which is eternal and abides.
May I never quarrel with those nearest to me;
and if I do, may I be reconciled quickly.
May I never devise evil against any man;
if any devise evil against me,
may I escape uninjured and without the need of hurting him.
May I love, seek, and attain only that which is good.
May I wish for all men's happiness and envy none.
May I never rejoice in the ill-fortune of one who has wronged me. …
When I have done or said what is wrong,
may I never wait for the rebuke of others,
but always rebuke myself until I make amends. …
May I win no victory that harms either me or my opponent. …
May I reconcile friends who are wroth with one another.
May I, to the extent of my power, give all needful help to my friends
and to all who are in want.
May I never fail a friend in danger.
When visiting those in grief
may I be able by gentle and healing words to soften their pain. …
May I respect myself. …
May I always keep tame that which rages within me. …
May I accustom myself to be gentle,
and never be angry with people because of circumstances.
May I never discuss who is wicked and what wicked things he has done,
but know good men and follow in their footsteps.
(Eusebius (of Myndus?); as quoted by Stobæus; and as translated by Gilbert Murray, who notes, "there is more of it." Stobæus does not appear to be well-translated into English; if anyone knows of a complete translation of this prayer, I would appreciate it.)
The golden age was first; when Man yet new,
No rule but uncorrupted reason knew:
And, with a native bent, did good pursue.
Unforc'd by punishment, un-aw'd by fear,
His words were simple, and his soul sincere;
Needless was written law, where none opprest:
The law of Man was written in his breast:
No suppliant crowds before the judge appear'd,
No court erected yet, nor cause was heard:
But all was safe, for conscience was their guard.
The mountain-trees in distant prospect please,
E're yet the pine descended to the seas:
E're sails were spread, new oceans to explore:
And happy mortals, unconcern'd for more,
Confin'd their wishes to their native shore.
No walls were yet; nor fence, nor mote, nor mound,
Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound:
Nor swords were forg'd; but void of care and crime,
The soft creation slept away their time.
(Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book I, as translated by Dryden et al)
In the age when life on earth was full, no one paid any special attention to worthy men, nor did they single out the talented. Rulers were like the highest branches on a tree and the people were like deer in the woods. They were honest and righteous without realizing they were "doing their duty." They cared for each other and did not know that this was "loving thy neighbor." They deceived no one yet did not know that they were "men of their word." They were reliable and did not know that this was "good faith." They lived freely together giving and taking, and did not know that they were generous. This is why their path left no trail behind. This is why they made no history.
(Zhuangzi, Ch. II, adapted by yours truly)
You know, speaking of Empedocles: modern science thinks little of his elements (we've got like twenty-nine-and-a-half times as many!), but cosmologically, he appears to have been quite correct: at the center, one has a (or, we might say, many) sphere(s) composed of heavy, passive Earth. Atop these reside life-giving Water, or as we might say, biosphere(s). Above these, is the realm of Air: at the lowest are the various dense atmosphere(s), but this gradually gives way to the thin æther suffusing the entirety of space, whereupon the planets and stars reside. Finally, beyond the stars (or as J. M. Barrie poetically put it, "the second star to the right and straight on 'til morning") is the fiery Empyrean, the spiritual realms. All of these are held in balance between Love (various attractive forces) and Strife (various repulsive forces). His discussion of how nothing in the universe is created or destroyed, but merely cycles between various forms, ultimately foreshadows the various laws of conservation; and the way in which love and strife give way to each other is mimicked at solar scales by stellar evolution and at cosmological scales by conformal cyclic cosmology.
I am reminded of Raymond Smullyan's assertion that the three ways of exploring the world—positivism, empiricism, and mysticism—are not mutually exclusive but rather mutually supportive. Here we have the meeting of all three, a common ground where we may all gather, if only we chose to operate under the banner of Love.
Ring out ye crystal spheres!
Once bless our human ears
(If ye have power to touch our senses so)
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time,
And let the bass of Heav'n's deep organ blow;
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to th'angelic symphony.
— John Milton, On the Morning of Christ's Nativity
Those [Gods] who watch over [the world] are Hestia, Athena, and Ares. [... But] if there is no ordering power[, ...] whence comes the fact that all things are for a purpose[? ... To] attribute men's acts of injustice and lust to Fate, is to make ourselves good and the Gods bad.[Sallustius VI, IX]
Herostratus, an Ephesian, set fire to the temple of Artemis at Ephesus, which had been begun by Chersiphron, and completed by Demetrius and Paeonius. It was burnt on the same night that Alexander the Great was born, B. C. 356, whereupon it was remarked by Hegesias the Magnesian, that the conflagration was not to be wondered at, since the goddess was absent from Ephesus, and attending on the delivery of Olympias[. ...] Herostratus was put to the torture for his deed, and confessed that he had fired the temple to immortalize himself. The Ephesians passed a decree condemning his name to oblivion; but Theopompus embalmed him in his history, like a fly in amber.[William Smith, Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology]
Of Hestia, we barely remember the name of Chersiphron. Of Athena, we have forgotten the names of the judges. But of Ares, we remember well the name of Herostratus.
We may not like Ares, but that does not mean He is not Good, and neither does it mean He does not look after His own.
In gratitude to the Most Beautiful, whose giggling melts heaven and earth, on this Her day, I offer up another transcription from Thomas Taylor's translation of Apuleius: the story of Her son's marriage to Psyche, as it appears in Books IV through VI of The Metamorphosis, or The Golden Ass. Also included are Taylor's footnotes, particularly his lengthy interpretation of the myth.
You can find the PDF in US Letter and A4 paper sizes.
As always, these transcriptions are in the public domain: all I ask is that, if you find any typos or mistakes, that you please let me know about them so that I might correct them!
♥
On the other hand, one may readily see from Venus' orbit how She is associated with beauty:
This lovely lotus-like shape comes from looking at the solar system from above, and drawing a line between the positions of Venus and Terra each day for eight years. It occurs because the ratio between their orbital periods is extremely close—one might say suspiciously close—to 8/13.
Some of my other favorite astronomical coincidences are that Sol and Luna appear the same size as seen from Terra, and that each planet is approximately twice as far from Sol as the last.
Consider Adolf Hirémy-Hirschl's painting Ahasuerus at the End of the World:
It depicts Ahasuerus, cursed to wander the world until Judgement Day, in the dark wastes at Time's End. He is guided by the twin angels of Hope and Fear. Fallen Humanity lies at his feet, and ravens—harbingers of Death, of course, but also hard-won Wisdom—look on. Perhaps he has finally learned the lesson for which he was cursed.
Like all fine art, there is much to unpack in the painting, but the thing that caught me first is the figure of Humanity. She is depicted beautifully, despite being dead in a frozen world: she is neither frozen nor desiccated nor even pallid! So emphasizing the beauty of Humanity—while it lasted, anyway: beauty never lasts!—was a particular goal of the artist's.
This is also true, I note, of the wise minds that composed geomancy. Puella, the figure of beauty, is also one of only two figures that generally depict a flesh-and-blood human being in a reading.
What a surprise this is to me! I have been taking it as an axiom that human beings are the very thing that snuff out the light of beauty from the world, rather than shine themselves. Clearly I got turned around, somewhere, and if I am to properly master geomancy, it is worth unpacking where...
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