by Unknown
Everything that was referred to as “spiritual worlds and concepts” by past generations is now considered real. They claim that the source of all inspiration and all manifestations of the spirit in many different cultural fields from the beginning of time is one: “the unconscious thirst of the soul for the Samith and the pain caused by the lack of it”. The alleged conflict and opposition between real and ideal is basically nothing more than “the incredible contrast and distance between this earthly world that we live in and the Great Reality”. That is what causes both the holy pain of inspiration and that conflict.
If our people heard all that, they would secretly laugh at them, but they are so proud of this “direct perception” they have of reality and the world, so proud of what they’ve seen and what they so firmly believe and support, that they wouldn’t even care…
The exhibits here are not classified based on the origin, school or era of their creators. All those significant figures come from the great motherland, earth, and belong to the great era, eternity, thus becoming immortal. You see Chopin not far from Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff, Goethe next to Hugo and Schiller in the same room as Alfred de Musset. As a matter of fact, a young unge, Lyla, told me a few days ago that a number of students, pilgrims from the neighbouring secondary school, the vilenthens, had put laurel wreaths and fresh flowers on their heads to honour them. I think about how many tears must have been shed by those great artists at the time of creation and how many tears they must have brought to their innumerable sensitive admirers and I can’t help but shiver. At least today they don’t consider poets crazy dreamers…
I have just realised how much noble suffering is incorporated in the worldly form of redemption called artistic creation. And when you see, hear or touch a true work of art, it is the closest you can get to seeing, hearing or touching the Great Reality; its memory grows stronger and so does the thirst and nostalgia for the Samith that’s hidden within all of us. And it is happiness that causes this pain full of spiritual joy!
I remembered something that Lain used to repeat in his lectures: that with the passage of time, our species reached a stage of biological and spiritual development that gave us the privilege of pain! Man has become a “sensitive receptor”. All great artists, like Lamartine, Praxiteles, Lessing, Klopstock, Chateaubriand, Phidias, Ribera and Mendelssohn were some of those who saw the light in obscure times, when nobody else could see it. Compared to the average person of their times, they seemed to have had supernatural mental inclinations.
“The greater the artist, the more unsatisfied he is with his own work,” Lain once told me. “All artists know that art has no boundaries, no limits, no end.” If I’m not mistaken, Beethoven had said something similar long before Lain did. And, as I was informed, what they both meant was that what artists are trying to express cannot be conveyed either through pens, paintbrushes, chisels, or musical notes… Its essence cannot be captured by the human mind nor can it be rationally explained.
In one of his pieces on artists and Art itself, Tinersen says: “Like the fluttering of swallows on an iron-barred skylight of a prison, their purpose is to remind us that it is spring outside, the air is fragrant and the blooming valleys await us. We belong to the bright blue sky as much as it belongs to us.”
A while ago Stefan told me: “I wish that all these great men from the ancient times could join us here to experience this salvation, to experience the highest form of spiritual happiness.” The Roisvirch they call it here. And he said that because, according to Tinersen, “Nobody knew back then the answer to the question: ‘Why do we suffer?’” That’s the reason why all great artists couldn’t find happiness in the outside world. They were still unaware of “the reflections of the Samith”.
LATHARMI
At 6:00 p.m. I wandered through the city trying to find the statue of Valmandel. Last fall, I got the chance to listen to quite a few pieces from his oratorio Prayer Among the Stars’ Golden Spheres, in many of Lain’s classes. I knew from the Swage and from my autumn studies in Markfor that the statues of Jesus and Volky were more or less in the same location.
“Valmandel’s not too far from here,” said Stefan. However, we were still inside the Pantheon and we needed to go to the Blue Roses, in Latharmi. That’s where Jesus, Volky, Larsen, Domenicus Albani—the “Plato of the Nojere”—and Axel Jenefelt—a leading thinker of their 9th century—were located.
We only saw them from afar. I noticed that in this part of the city the statues were more thinly scattered as if the great men that they depicted were entitled to more space! We didn’t get up close to them because dozens of Ilectors, priestesses and other VIPs were paying homage, most of them kneeling in prayer at the pedestals of the statues. In fact, at the pedestal of the statue of Valmandel I saw a couple of Tilteys lying down, dreaming with their eyes open! Stefan didn’t want to go near them. He said that we had to wait for them to finish their meditation and prayer first, but we didn’t have enough time, so we left.
I couldn’t possibly describe the atmosphere that prevailed in the flowery streets of Lagrela. I couldn’t possibly put down on this lifeless paper the feelings that I experienced there, in the navel of the Pantheon, breathing that air of deep piety. It was completely different from any other part of the Valley that I’ve been to. I felt something more when I was there: I felt the faith!
I saw some “guides”, dressed in grey uniforms and bearing the insignia of their class, whose job was to lead some groups of foreign pilgrims. They passed by us. What reverence and solemnity! I could barely withhold my tears…
When I heard Stefan saying that we were heading to the Blue Roses in Latharmi, I was expecting to see something like the pastel-coloured rosebushes that I’ve come across so many times and in so many places up to now. But upon arrival there, I was stunned to find evergreen rosebushes, different from the rest I’ve seen, almost equal in size with small pine trees! But what leaves you truly speechless is the incredible colour of their rose petals. This wasn’t just a colour; it was light! It looked as if the petals were a canvas of an artist, a mirror reflected the colour of the sky, an image of incredible clarity!
We walked past “The Seats of the Ilectors”. There was only one Ilector there now, but he wasn’t sitting; he was standing, his eyes fixed on the horizon. We went closer, as close as we could. They say that the greatest Ilectors were once here, taking up these seats, those who once found the inner strength to speak their minds “each in their own era and in their own language”, those who spoke out more clearly than others, who centuries before the first Nibelvirches, had been trying to prepare the people for what was coming. They were said to be half-human and half-celestial creatures, supernatural spirits that had been humanised in the environment of our world. They perpetually startled mankind, and they still do. They cause many conflicts in their time. They all took spirituality to another level…How exactly? Nobody ever knew; perhaps not even them…
“For as long as we remain humans, we are not entitled to know either our origin or our destination,” said Stefan without looking at me. “Death is not true oblivion; life is! Life, which limits our cognition, speech and understanding, life which limits us to our senses… So-called death is a redemptive light ...” he added. And he honestly believed it.
As we moved away from the statue of Christ in the direction of Labejona and fatherland of Alexis Volky, I saw, coming from the opposite direction, processions of hundreds of very tall and robust adolescent boys and girls, all from the nearby vilenthens, symmetrically lined up in octads. I commented to Stefan on their height and he smiled and said that it’s normal after two thousand years of evolution to be a few inches taller…
The small white candles that many of the children were holding in their right hand illuminated the dark. Nearby, I saw several rows of yellowish canisters full of blue and white rose petals, also inexplicably sparkling and shiny. Thereby, I had the opportunity to see for the first time, another miracle of the present times: without th
e use of phosphorus or any similar material, as Stefan assured me, current technology is able to make a few species of the plant world and the kingdom of the flowers now seem self-luminous and even shine brighter than they do in daylight.
Suddenly, out of the absolute silence, hymns started sounding. Their melodies are divine and, although distinct, they are somewhat similar to ecclesiastical music. Later, the hymns started alternating with invocations, and I had the pleasure of hearing quite a few phrases of our own times. Among them, the ancient Latin “Gloria in excelsis Deo” and the incredibly touching “Miserere”.
One had to have a heart of stone to manage to withhold tears in the sight of that venerable centuries-old tradition coming to life, here, now, after it has touched the souls of so many generations before us.
I couldn’t help myself telling Stefan that all those around me looked like Christians, dropping a hint about what he told me about the fall dogmatism, which had started in the 20th century along with the progress in scientific research. “And this dogmatism has continued up to now,” I pointed out.
“You’re not entirely right,” he replied patiently. “Modern life is deeply religious, far more than it was in your own time.” He told me that the outburst of disbelief that had prevailed during the centuries that were marked by an extensive and one-sided technological advancement, were succeeded by the deep faith of the Nojere. “God exists; Only his essence—what he is and what he’s not—is not up to humans to define. And the relationship between creator and creation cannot be conceived by any of the biological forms of organic matter.”
I found it impossible to follow all his thoughts. Sometimes I don’t even understand what he means, especially when talking about the “undiagnosed element of a mental entity that comes and infuses the higher organic forms of life, without being life itself” or when he says that “there are many more worlds and dimensions of life that escape us, apart from the three-dimensional world in which we perceive something as real.”
THE VOLKIES
The story of the first “200” and the early years of Alexis Volky
16-VII
This morning we found ourselves in Nayatana again and later in the Pantheon, more or less in the same places as yesterday. After going down an anonymous pebblestone street, we ended up in the long paths of Labejona and the orangery. Everything has been preserved exactly as it was 525 ago, in the exact same state and in the exact same place. This is where Alexis Volky walked around as a child.
The first Volkies were of Slavic origin. In fact, their great ancestor was among the “200” who founded the Valley. Much later, after the year 700, three of Volky’s direct ancestors married French and Scandinavian women hence the mixed origins.
Initially those first Polish and Ukrainian families were settled in another region, in the northern outskirts of the Valley, but according to history books, after the 6th century (circa 3000 AD), they moved to this area. They were pious, frugal, kind and enlightened people, who dedicated themselves mostly to fruit growing and crafts and in their free time lived a practically monastic life and in many cases ascetic, with a strong inclination towards spiritual meditation and reflection. They lived like that for hundreds of years; their lifestyle became a family tradition that was passed down from generation to generation.
The guide, Viktor Gorms, leads us and ten pilgrims, to a simple, three-storey house-museum of which he’s been the caretaker for forty years. However, Stefan informed me that Gorms is not a mere caretaker and guardian of this house; he is also a rare spiritual person and a research scientist.
In this ancestral home, this small farm and the surrounding gardens, Alexis Volky’s father, Eugene Volky, spent almost his entire life. Son of the caretaker of a great library of the time and famous in his time for his finest monographs on aesthetics, Eugene Volky was a worthy thinker of the Chillerin School during their 10th century. They say that he never travelled outside the Valley. He was a humble and modest man, a lecturer devoted to his studies. He never aspired to become famous. The more he felt the need to improve his inner self, the more indifferent he became towards recognition of his work and acceptance from others. He was also unconcerned with building up a “career” or climbing the social ladder. The only thing that mattered to him was the maturity and the richness of his intellect and spirit.
At the age of thirty-two he was married for love to his twenty-year old student, Inga Keiry, a sweet brunette with dark grey eyes. Her family tree was of insignificant historical value, but her parents were virtuous people with a spirit of self-sacrifice, which they managed to bequeath to their daughter, along with fine education and excellent manners. “She is worth the risk,” the library caretaker had told his son before the marriage was decided, “there are very good chances that she will make you happy and give you a wonderful family!”
But Eugene would have married her even if his father had disapproved; he loved her very much indeed. She was his invaluable assistant at work and his life companion; he was very happy. Unfortunately his librarian father, and grandfather of Alexis Volky, didn’t live long enough to witness the miracle of life when she gave birth to his grandson, Alexis Volky, on the third floor of this very house with the bright rooms and open view, the second month of 911, a year after the marriage.
Now the young unges show to the visitors what’s left of this place, the place where this omniscient man, the promoter of direct knowledge, had spent his childhood. And the venerable old and wise man, Viktor Gorman, is there to welcome you whenever he’s got time.
In order to step on the well-preserved wooden floors they give you some cloth shoes to wear. The general atmosphere of silence in the inside of the house makes you want to lower your voice. Stefan hasn’t uttered a word since we entered and the unges began to talk to us about the few things that are in the house and Alexis Volky’s personal belongings.
Here in the Valley you will encounter many famous names that date back to the 6th century and have a long tradition in meditation and inner life cultivation, hence the dynasties of the Chillerins, the Volkies, the Royalsens, the Borges and many others that have passed through the Aidersen Institute. They could probably be paralleled to our own Curie and Strauss dynasties of the 19th and early 20th century.
But apart from the power of heredity, it has been historically recorded that many of the great men and women that have left their mark on our earth have also had exceptional upbringing by their mothers. And it seems as if Inga Keiry-Volky was a very loving, dedicated, selfless and overall wonderful mother to her son for more than twenty years. When the “exquisite mission” of raising a son was finally completed, Inga saw a very different person when she looked in the mirror, but she did nothing but smile in the face of the law of physical decay…
However, the contribution of education, heredity and family tradition was less significant than the inherent values of young Alexis. The boy was born with mental and spiritual gifts and a big, sensitive heart. Just as Mozart was born with the divine gift of harmony, Alexis had an inherent and profound sensitivity and great affection toward people, which he was said to have acquired in some sort of “pre-existence”.
At school, that child with the high forehead and the black, soulful eyes always knew a bit more than what was taught in each class. At the age of eight or nine, as he was later told, he had his little moments of rebellion against the unfairness of life, meaning the injustice of human destiny and not that of everyday social life though he hadn’t even been slightly touched by this “unfair destiny”. His heart was full of compassion. He was meant for many and great things, but happiness was not one of them.
There were moments when Inga fought against this oversensitivity and urged him to come back down to earth and stop agonising over other people’s problems. His caring mother thought that her child’s candle would eventually burn out if he kept making “the holy suffering of the people” his own.
But everything went well and he turned out just fine. According to his b
iographers, at the age of sixteen, Alexis had a somewhat strong leaning towards solitude, but at the same time he was also joyful and enthusiastic about life and the world. He loved nature and he used to take long walks around the Valley. The change of seasons alone was enough to fill him with incredible joy.
Throughout his adolescence, Alexis used to choose his extracurricular books by himself. He was inclined towards spiritual communication; he was seeking some sort of “companionship” with the spiritual treasures of the past that had preceded him and thus escaped him. Those wise men “spoke” to him, but the adolescent weighed their words very carefully; he didn’t agree with everything they had to say…
In 927, shortly before noon on New Year’s Eve, while Alexis was taking a walk with his father Eugene among the orange trees, and they were reviewing their year, the young man said, among other things, that he believed in a “possible identification of the path of knowledge and the path of love” and he talked about “a point where they converge, a point lost in the abstraction of nature and creation, something that the human mind cannot grasp.” The proud father listened with rapture and a secret anticipation arose in him…
In his twenties, young Alexis was thinner and his face was full of light. In physical terms, he looked somewhat like Chopin, judging from some photographs of the era. He was undergoing some health problems at the time and his mother worried again. She couldn’t shake the idea that her son might not be meant to live a long life, and that idea overwhelmed her.
And the truth is that, between the ages of 19 and 22, Alexis seemed to be one of those fine souls who depart this life too soon to get where they truly belong faster. And yet this did not happen. He was not meant to die young. He was meant to grow old and grey and give to the people that he so much loved the greatest spiritual gift in the history of humanity!
