by Gary Lachman
The big Satan patted his enormous belly, and from it echoed a long, rattling click of metal, which ended with the sob of a chorus of human voices. He laughed, and displayed his broken teeth, and his laughter was like the complacent chuckle of well-off men who have dined too richly.
This Satan said to me: "I can give you that which obtains all, that which is worth all, that which replaces all." And he tapped again on his immense gullet, and a rumbling echo made up the commentary to his impudent words.
I turned from him in disgust, saying: "I have no need for my own enjoyment, or for anyone else's misery, and I certainly don't want the kind of riches that afflict one with all the horrors displayed, like tasteless wallpaper, on your corpulent flesh."
As for the She-Devil, I would be dishonest if I didn't admit that at first sight I found her a fetching creature, redolent of a bizarre charm. As for defining this appeal, I can't compare it with anything better than that of very beautiful women who are on the wane, those who never seem to age, yet whose beauty is like the enchanting magic of ruins. Her hair was imperious and disjointed, and her eyes, though tired, emanated a powerful fascination. What struck me most was the mystery of her voice, in which I found the sound of a delicious contralti combined with the husky rumble of one who has enjoyed too fully the pleasures of drinking brandy.
"Do you want to know my power?" said this Goddess with her charming and paradoxical voice. "Listen." She took a gigantic trumpet, decorated like a reed pipe with the names of all the newspapers in the world, and putting it to her lips, she blared out my name. It rolled across the universe like the roar of a thousand waterfalls, and reverberated back to me after returning from the most distant planets.
"The Devil!" I cried, half in her power. "That's what's precious!" But, after examing more attentively the seductive virago, it seemed to me that I recognized her after all. Yes, that's it - I had seen her in a compromising situation with some knaves of my acquaintance, and the memory of that liason brought to mind the atmosphere of a shop worn prostitute.
So I answered resolutely "Get thee behind me. I'm not one to take as wife the mistress ofdullards I'd rather not remember."
I had every reason to be proud of my courage, integrity and fortitude. But soon after, I sadly awoke, and all my strength drained away. "In truth," I said to myself," I must have been dreaming to have shown such scruples. Now, if only they'd return when I am wide awake! Well, that would be a different story!"
I invoked them with ardour, begging their forgiveness, and assuring them that I would dishonour myself as often as possible, in order to warrant their return. But no luck. I hadn't the faintest doubt that I offended them, for they never returned.
From Lesfleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil)
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Correspondances
A Past Life
Litany to Satan
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Prayer
From Cosmic Consciousness
R. M. BUCKE
I
What is Cosmic Consciousness? The present volume is an attempt to answer this question; but notwithstanding it seems well to make a short prefatory statement in as plain language as possible so as to open the door, as it were, for the more elaborate exposition to be attempted in the body of the work. Cosmic Consciousness, then, is a higher form of consciousness than that possessed by the ordinary man. This last is called Self Consciousness and is that faculty upon which rests all of our life (both subjective and objective) which is not common to us and the higher animals, except that small part of it which is derived from the few individuals who have had the higher consciousness above named. To make the matter clear it must be understood that there are three forms or grades of consciousness. (1) Simple Consciousness, which is possessed by say the upper half of the animal kingdom. By means of this faculty a dog or a horse is just as conscious of the things about him as a man is; he is also conscious of his own limbs and body and he knows that these are a part of himself. (2) Over and above this Simple Consciousness, which is possessed by man as by animals, man has another which is called Self Consciousness. By virtue of this faculty man is not only conscious of trees, rocks, waters, his own limbs and body, but he becomes conscious of himself as a distinct entity apart from all the rest of the universe. It is as good as certain that no animal can realize himself in that way. Further, by means of self consciousness, man (who knows as the animal knows) becomes capable of treating his own mental states as objects of consciousness. The animal is, as it were, immersed in his consciousness as a fish in the sea; he cannot, even in imagination, get outside of it for one moment so as to realize it. But man by virtue of self consciousness can step aside, as it were, from himself and think: "Yes, that thought that I had about that matter is true; I know it is true and I know that I know it is true." The writer has been asked: "How do you know that animals cannot think in the same manner?" The answer is simple and conclusive - it is: There is no evidence that any animal can so think, but if they could we should soon know it. Between two creatures living together, as dogs or horses and men, and each self conscious, it would be the simplest matter in the world to open up communication. Even as it is, diverse as is our psychology, we do, by watching his acts, enter into the dog's mind pretty freely - we see what is going on there - we know that the dog sees and hears, smells and tastes - we know that he has intelligence - adapts means to ends - that he reasons. If he was self conscious we must have learned it long ago. We have not learned it and it is as good as certain that no dog, horse, elephant or ape ever was self conscious. Another thing: on man's self consciousness is built everything in and about us distinctively human. Language is the objective of which self consciousness is the subjective. Self consciousness and language (two in one, for they are two halves of the same thing) are the sine qua non of human social life, of manners, of institutions, of industries of all kinds, of all arts useful and fine. If any animal possessed self consciousness it seems certain that it would upon that master faculty build (as man has done) a superstructure of language; of reasoned out customs, industries, art. But no animal has done this, therefore we infer that no animal has self consciousness.
The possession of self consciousness and language (its other self) by man creates an enormous gap between him and the highest creature possessing simple consciousness merely.
Cosmic Consciousness is a third form which is as far above Self Consciousness as is that above Simple Consciousness. With this form, of course, both simple and self consciousness persist (as simple consciousness persists when self consciousness is acquired), but added to them is the new faculty so often named and to be named in this volume. The prime characteristic of cosmic consciousness is, as its name implies, a con sciousness of the cosmos, that is, of the life and order of the universe. What these words mean cannot be touched upon here; it is the business of this volume to throw some light upon them. There are many elements belonging to the cosmic sense besides the central fact just alluded to. Of these a few may be mentioned. Along with the consciousness of the cosmos there occurs an intellectual enlightenment or illumination which alone would place the individual on a new plane of existence - would make him almost a member of a new species. To this is added a state of moral exaltation, an indescribable feeling of elevation, elation, and joyousness, and a quickening of the moral sense, which is fully as striking and more important both to the individual and to the race than is the enhanced intellectual power. With these come, what may be called a sense of immortality, a consciousness of eternal life, not a conviction that he shall have this, but the consciousness that he has it already.
Only a personal experience of it, or a prolonged study of men who have passed into the new life, will enable us to realize what this actually is; but it has seemed to the present writer that to pass in review, even briefly and imperfectly, instances in which the condition in question has existed would be worth while. He expects his work to be useful in two ways: First, in broadening the general view of
human life by comprehending in our mental vision this important phase of it, and by enabling us to realize, in some measure, the true status of certain men who, down to the present, are either exalted, by the average self conscious individual, to the rank of gods, or, adopting the other extreme, are adjudged insane. And in the second place he hopes to furnish aid to his fellow men in a far more practical and important sense. The view he takes is that our descendants will sooner or later reach, as a race, the condition of cosmic consciousness, just as, long ago, our ancestors passed from simple to self consciousness. He believes that this step in evolution is even now being made, since it is clear to him both that men with the faculty in question are becoming more and more common and also that as a race we are approaching nearer and nearer to that stage of the self conscious mind from which the transition to the cosmic conscious is effected. He realizes that, granted the necessary heredity, any individual not already beyond the age may enter cosmic consciousness. He knows that intelligent contact with cosmic conscious minds assists self conscious individuals in the ascent to the higher plane. He therefore hopes, by bringing about, or at least facilitating this contact, to aid men and women in making the almost infinitely important step in question.
From Hymns to the Night
NOVALIS
Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the alljoyous light, with its colours, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening day? The giant-world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its blue flood: the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibing plant, and the wild, burning multiform beast inhales it, but more than all, the lordly stranger with the sense-filled eyes, the swaying walk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips. Like a king over earthly nature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds and unbinds innumerable alliances, hangs its heavenly form around every earthly substance. Its presence alone reveals the marvellous splendour of the kingdoms of the world.
Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious night. Afar lies the world - sunk in a deep grave - waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. The distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapour after the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents. What if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with the faith of innocence?
What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart, and stills the soft air of sadness? Dost thou also take a pleasure in us, dark night? What holdest thou under thy mantle, that with hidden power affects my soul? Precious balm drips from thy hand out of its bundle of poppies. Thou upliftest the heavy-laden wings of the soul. Darkly and inexpressibly are we moved: joy-startled, I see a grave face that, tender and worshipful, inclines toward me, and, amid manifold entangled locks, reveals the youthful loveliness of the mother. How poor and childish a thing seems to me now the light, how joyous and welcome the departure of the day, because the night turns away from thee thy servants, you now strew in the gulfs of space those flashing globes, to proclaim thy omnipotence, thy return, in seasons of thy absence. More heavenly than those glittering stars we hold the eternal eyes which the night hath opened within us. Farther they see than the palest of those countless hosts - needing no aid from the light, they penetrate the depths of a loving soul - that fills a loftier region with bliss ineffable. Glory to the queen of the world, to the great prophet of the holier worlds, to the guardian of blissful love, she sends thee to me, thou tenderly beloved, the gracious sun of the night, now am I awake for now am I thine and mine, thou hast made me know the night, made of me a man, consume with spirit-fire my body, that I, turned to finer air, may mingle more closely with thee, and then our bridal night endure forever.
2
Must the morning always return? Will the despotism of the earthly never cease? Unholy activity consumes the angel-visit of the night. Will the time never come when love's hidden sacrifice shall burn eternally? To the light a season was set; but everlasting and boundless is the dominion of the night. Endless is the duration of sleep. Holy sleep, gladden not too seldom in this earthly day-labour, the devoted servant of the night. Fools alone mistake thee, knowing nought of sleep but the shadow which, in the twilight of the real night, thou pitifully cast over us. They feel thee not in the golden flood of the grapes - in the magic oil of the almond tree - and the brown juice of the poppy. They know not that it is thou who haunt the bosom of the tender maiden, and make a heaven of her lap; never suspect it is thou, opening the doors to Heaven, that step to meet them out of ancient stories, bearing the key to the dwellings of the blessed, silent messenger of secrets infinite.
3
Once when I was shedding bitter tears, when, dissolved in pain, my hope was melting away, and I stood alone by the barren mound which in its narrow dark bosom hid the vanished form of my life - lonely as never yet was lonely man, driven by anxiety unspeakable - powerless, and no longer anything but a conscious misery. As there I looked about me for help, unable to go on or to turn back, and clung to the fleeting, extinguished life with an endless longing: then, out of the blue distances, from the hills of my ancient bliss, came a shiver of twilight, and at once snapped the bond of birth, the chains of the light. Away fled the glory of the world, and with it my mourning - the sadness flowed together into a new, unfathomable world. Thou, night-inspiration, heavenly Slumber, didst come upon me, the region gently heaved up itself, over it hovered my unbound, newborn spirit. The mound became a cloud of dust and through the cloud I saw the glorified face of my beloved. In her eyes eternity. reposed. I laid hold of her hands, and the tears became a sparkling bond that could not be broken. Into the distance swept by, like a tempest, thousands of years. On her neck I welcomed the new life with ecstatic tears. It was the first, the only dream and just since then I have held fast an eternal, unchangeable faith in the heaven of the night, and its light, the beloved.
4
Now I know when will come the last morning: when the light no more scares away night and love: when sleep shall be without waking, and but one continuous dream. I feel in me a celestial exhaustion. Long and weariful was my pilgrimage to the holy grave, and crushing was the cross. The crystal wave, which, imperceptible to the ordinary sense, springs in the dark bosom of the mound against whose foot breaks the flood of the world, he who has tasted it, he who has stood on the mountain frontier of the world, and looked across into the new land, into the abode of the night: truly he turns not again into the tumult of the world, into the land where dwells the light in ceaseless unrest.
On those heights he builds for himself tabernacles, tabernacles of peace, and there longs and loves and gazes across, until the most welcome of all hours draws him down into the waters of the spring. Afloat above remains what is earthly, and is swept back in storms, but what became holy by the touch of love, runs free through hidden ways to the region beyond, where, like fragrances, it mingles with love asleep.
Still you wake, cheerful light, that weary man to his labour - and into me you pour joyous life - but thou wilest me not away from Memory's moss-grown monument. Gladly will I stir busy hands, everywhere behold where thou hast need of me, praise the lustre of thy splendour, pursue unwearied the lovely harmonies of thy skilled handicraft: gladly contemplate the clever pace of thy mighty, luminous clock, explore the balance of the forces and the laws of the wondrous play of countless worlds and their seasons. But true to the night remains my secret heart, and to creative love, her daughter. Canst thou show me a heart eternally true? has thy sun friendly eyes that know me? do thy stars lay hold of my longing hand? and return me the tender pressure and the caressing word? was it thou did adorn them with colours and a flickering outline, or was it she who gave to thy jewels a higher
, a dearer weight? What delight, what pleasure offers thy life, to outweigh the transports of death? Wears not everything that inspires us the colour of the Night? She sustains thee mother-like, and to her you owe all *thy glory. Thou wouldst vanish into thyself, in boundless space thou wouldst dissolve, if she did not hold thee fast, if she swaddled thee not, so that thou grew warm, and flaming, begot the universe. Truly I was, before you were - the mother sent me with my brothers and sisters to inhabit thy world, to hallow it with love that it might be an ever-present memorial - to plant it with flowers unfading. As yet they have not ripened, these thoughts divine, as yet is there small trace of our coming revelation. One day thy clock will point to the end of time, and then thou shall be as one of us, and shall, full of ardent longing, be extinguished and die. I feel in me the close of thy activity, heavenly freedom, and blessed return. With wild pangs I recognize thy distance from our home, thy resistance against the ancient, glorious heaven. Thy rage and thy raving are in vain. Unscorchable stands the cross: victory-banner of our breed.
5
In ancient times, over the widespread families of men an iron fate ruled with dumb force. A gloomy oppression swathed their heavy souls - the earth was boundless - the abode of the gods and their home. From eternal ages stood its mysterious structure. Beyond the red hills of the morning, in the sacred bosom of the sea, dwelt the sun, the all-enkindling, living light. An aged giant held up the blissful world. Fast beneath mountains lay the first-born sons of mother earth. Helpless in their destroying fury against the new, glorious race of gods, and their kindred, glad-hearted men. The ocean's dark green abyss was the lap of a goddess. In crystal grottos revelled a luxuriant folk. Rivers, trees, flowers, and beasts had human wits. Sweeter tasted the wine poured out by youthabundance, a god in the grape-clusters, a loving, motherly goddess grew in the full golden sheaves, love's sacred inebriation was a sweet worship of the fairest of the god-ladies. Life rustled through the centuries like one spring-time, an evervariegated festival of heaven-children and earth-dwellers. All races childlike adored the ethereal, thousand-fold flame as the one sublime thing in the world. There was but one notion, a horrible dream-shape:
