What is inchoate
in reason has got to be the primeval serpent twisting between sun, moon and
Earth, the dangerous serpent, the cosmic predator that animates Man’s
imagination. The dark folklore of startled prey and circling predator that came
out of the pulp writers like Gertrude Bennet and, of course, Weird Tales.
The chthonic
romance that inhabits a large proportion of the tales lurks back to the fact
that Orpheus was one of the early (legendary) Greek poets. Modern reason denies
the chthonic aspect of the serpent, and instead allies it solely with the sun.
This denial of
the physical reality is illusory but, as noted elsewhere, verifiable proofs are
very convincing to acolytes. Not only that but, if the physical universe can be
denied the physique can’t, and we have the ludicrous sight of Katie Bouman’s
black hole (Hyborian Bridge 56).
Added to that is
the compulsion for numbers and routines (see Grace Slick quote Hyborian
bridge 62/1). So, even though Man is thinking in the head, he/she is
actually in the physique which is actually part of the physical universe. So it
is still a type of illusory reality.
The illusory
world that isn’t physical cannot revive because revival is a product of decay.
We’re back with active country pursuits, the hunt, Diana and her faithful
hounds, carrion and crows. The animated, chthonic universe of Weird Tales. It’s
a revival of dark folklore that dwells in sombre timelost places of potent
mystery. Really, the mysteries of Samothrace or Delphi rather than the public
display of the Parthenon.
In Gertrude
Bennett’s (Francis Stevens) Claimed (1920), her description of the
obsessive hoarder Jesse Robinson speaks for itself.
The old man, whose finger-nail slowly
followed these characters, as if
by doing so he might trace their meaning,
was as perfect in his way as
their draughtsmanship. He was a perfect
specimen, that is, of the hawk
or predacious type in the genus homo. It
was night, and the rays of a
hanging lamp brought out his face in bold
lights and shadows.
In the chthonic
universe, the presence of death is a given as is the predator. It is much like
the classical universe of ancient tragedians. In Sophocles’ Antigone
Eteocles and Polynices,
leading opposite sides in Thebes' civil war, died fighting each
other for the throne. Creon, the new ruler of Thebes and brother of the former Queen
Jocasta, has decided that Eteocles will be honored and Polyneices will be in
public shame. The rebel brother's body will not be sanctified by holy rites and
will lie unburied on the battlefield, prey for carrion animals like worms and
vultures..
Carrion feeders
exist in wilderness, which is just the Earth left to its own devices, outside
the claw-like grip of Man. Wilderness is life and strength and primal rhythm.
This closeness
of life and death is brought home in Claimed when the mysterious jade
box summons a hallucinogenic sea-tide.
He recognized the thing well enough now. He
had seen it flood
devouringly up and across smooth beaches
where the gray-brown sand
gleamed wetly and the clean salt tang of
its breath filled one's lungs
with life.
Life and death in the
classical universe are two poles of the same reality. That reality contains the
mysteries of Samothrace, and also the noble bearing of the Parthenin marbles
(prev.)
The mysteries are to do
with life and regeneration, revival out of chaos or disorder. The one-sided
reality of pure order cannot exist in a balanced universe because out of decay
springs life. The mysteries are a way of giving this a moral recognition.
It’s intriguing that
Bennett’s story starts with a description of a ruined city, upthriust from the
sea depths.
Near the center the rock has been flung up
in ridges, forming
rectangular and other shapes, quaintly
reminiscent of the ruins of old
buildings. Though, from some distance off,
I observed that in several
cases the warm rain which has been falling
intermittently had washed
the ash away from these ridges and that the
rock so bared is uniformly
of the same brilliant metallic-red with
which the chocolate-colored
formation near the shore is streaked.
From where we stood the illusion of ruins
was nearly perfect, and
indeed--who knows?--we may to-day have
looked upon the last surviving
trace of some ancient city, flung up from
the abyss that engulfed it
ages before the brief
history we have of the race of man began.
Where there is ruin there
is revival; the two go together. This is really to do with line. A ruin has a
quavering line. The ravages of weather and insects and rabbit droppings take
their toll.
It’s the very height of
irregularity; but by the same token, irregularity is a sign of life. Living
things create irregularity. Irregularity is also a sign of classical art. If
you take a Greek vase, the line is the product of two things; the technical
knowledge of the potter, and their spontaneous skill with line. The two
together make the expression.
Diana slaying Actaeon
Where you have
line you have recognition. No one anywhere on Earth could fail to recognize all
the traits of a Greek vase. But, what is line? It’s not one thing, it’s a
product of two things; technique (training) and spontaneity (flow).
The same goes
for any living thing. We recognize a fish, an eel or seaweed because the line
is irregular and spontaneous, and not simply technical. The same goes for
vernacular architecture. It is the product of more than one thing. It is the
expression of Man.
Above all, the
same goes for the Parthenon. It might be – as Melina Mercouri says Hyborian
Bridge 66 – a unique monument, but it still weathers and crumbles like all
things on Earth.
That is their
chthonic strength, their attachment to the underworld. In myth, Proserpine
(Persephone, spring) spends six months of the year with Pluto, her spouse. The
next six months she spends with Ceres, her mother (harvest).
This is the
world of mystery; the physical world that connects life and death.