|
THE CUP, THE SWORD AND THE CRUX ANSATA
By
[Editor’s note: This essay is incomplete and fragmentary, and only survives in the Yorke typescript. In this typescript it had six numbered sections, of which we have retained four under this title. The first section (the Cup) is possibly incomplete. The second section (the Angel and the Sword) exists only in outline form, probably its first draft, which affords a glimpse of how Parsons organized his ideas and the logical method that underlies his passionate writing style. The third section (Wormwood Star) seems fragmentary and incomplete, as does the untitled fourth section, which shares some themes with the second section. Sections five and six do not appear to form a part of this essay, and have been published separately as essays in their own right. Section five, in two parts, is an essay on the Witchcraft, and section six treats of the “Children”.
Introduction If it is possible to characterize an age with a word, ours might be called the age of need. In the midst of riches, there is not satisfaction or content, before the mightiest science and technology the basic questions go unanswered, the basic problems unsolved. With every possibility of sexual gratification, there is a lust that is unquenched, a desire unfulfilled.
Religion—old truths in robes gaudy or severe—struggles in vain against a spiritual sterility, speaks windily in empty words that fall on empty hearts. Cults flourish, and grow ridiculous, and fall away. Social philosophies, conceived in the loftiest idealism, are twisted, distorted, aborted before birth.
All, all withers before the flame of an awful desire, inarticulate and unapprehended, that is like to burn up the world. And all over the world there is despair for the present and fear for the future, because of a need, a desire that is not known.
And what is this desire? It is the desire to know ourselves, to know our brothers, and to know God. Not in the barren reaches of intellectual speculation or the sterile webs of metaphysical logic, but in the warm understanding depths of human emotion, and in the golden heights of spiritual communion.
To know ourselves—the wondrous microcosmic creation—to dare the abysses and the hells, to span the oceans, explore the continents, scale the mountains and achieve the constellations that shine within our own being. To know our brothers, to love and be loved—to understand, Oh God, to understand, to dissolve the malice and the fear and in laughter and in tears to embrace and cry my brother, my brother.
To know God, to know that awful serenity [severity?] that makes even the flowers to blossom and the birds to sing; to stand naked before the terror and ecstasy or eternity, before the total love that is God.
It is written that Oedipus gave a banal answer to a riddle propounded by the Sphinx, and thereafter went down disastrously into Thebes. And here is the whole history of man. That being that is half beast and half goddess cries out "What is man?" and the answers, oh the answers.
"It is a slave, an ape, a machine, a damned soul."
What indeed is man, this portent that has appeared among us? What is his origin, and what his destiny? Was he not formed from the star dust, from the nebulae, out of the suns? Is he not born of the ocean, with the wind and the rain and the shout of thunder in his voice? Do not all deeps and all heights meet in him, abyss unto abyss? Is there not fire in his heart and laughter and terror about him who is beloved by life and death?
What is the enormous curiosity and the insatiable lust that has made gods and kings and creeds, and unmade them—broken toys on the dump heap of time?
What indeed is this, who can go so high, and so very low—who has grubbed in all gutters, cried out on all crosses, terrorized on all thrones—this god from the depths, this beast from the stars, this wonder and terror called man?
Where shall we seek the answer? Why, it is everywhere—in everything he does, in what he makes, in what he thinks—assuredly—but on these things his back is turned. But when we look into the secret heart—the symbols, into the passions of sorcery and sanctity and the passion that transcends both of these—then we may see the "stuff that dreams are made of," the matrix of the maker of gods. The Trinity.
What pitiable nonsense veils the face of this enormous mystery. With one great sweep let us brush away the trash of centuries, and behold the unveiled wonder; for here is the apotheosis of man. The Cup, the Sword and the Crux Ansata; Isis, Horus; Holy Ghost, Father, and Son; the veritable name of God.
The Cup, the holy graal, the Cup of Babalon, WOMAN, and the eternal force embodied in women, the heart of nature—dark womb of stars.
The Sword, solar-phallic emblem of the demon-angel—the beast-god that is man.
The Crux Ansata, looped cross of life, symbol of the two combined in the creative ecstasy that is God, and prefiguring the child that is the perfect fruit of that union.
Here is the basic trinity. Upon its splendid structure have been hung all ornaments of shame and folly, of trickery and self-deceit. For it is only with clear and unself-conscious eyes that we may look on the forces that made and move us. That which is God is eternal and changeless, but truly we have made its image in our own image, distorting in partiality and prejudice, in fear and greed, even as these things distort the light within.
This is my thesis—that by knowing and understanding of these two forces we may unite them in ourselves into a third, which is God.
This is the hidden knowledge, the secret doctrine known to almost every savage, preserved in the occult schools of history, and well-nigh lost to modern man. And I believe that this knowledge properly applied, will not be without some value. I believe that we have taken refuge from a religion that was intolerably corrupt and sanctimonious, in a materialism which, without spiritual values, is equally barren. It is my desire to indicate an approach, based upon a very ancient concept, whereby a mature and healthy-minded person—even a skeptical person—may find spiritual and emotional significance.
I am aware that such an approach must be simple, and have chosen fundamental concepts that are extremely simple, having been originally conceived by persons with all the wisdom of simplicity. I am also aware that a philosophy based on frankly sexual concepts may be offensive in certain quarters. It is certainly not my intention to offend, but I must point out that persons unable or unwilling to see the wonder and beauty of sex, and of that which lies beyond sex, are mainly responsible for the confusion and ultimate destruction of the religious ideal.
I. The Cup BABALON the beautiful, the Great whore BABALON, riding the star beast, and drunken on the blood of saints, Genetrix—Matrix—Mother of Stars—what an image of fear and wonder! Scorn not—mock not—for the Cup that she beareth is the Holy Graal, and the name Whore is also holy.
For is not BABALON the whole of Nature—and is not the Cup she beareth That in which all things are conceived? Verily She is the star goddess, "maiden most perfect, lady of light," the "sea-born and star-begotten" of whom Sappho hymned? And is not BABALON Woman, the beloved Whore, who gives all that she is, and uses all of a man? Verily, she is that accursed angel in whom is all damnation and all redemption, for in her is all power given.
And form that Cup flow the rivers of life, and its foam is the foam of the milky way, that bears the wonderful seed of stars. And from these waters rises tall and eternal the tree of life, the world ash.
What scurrilous blasphemy, what incredible effrontery, that would insult the whole of nature with a doctrine of immaculate conception, a degraded sneer at woman, and the wonderful process by which men are born. What foul conniving mind would stoop to forge such chains for woman!
In the beginning was the matriarchy—the age of Isis, age upon age slowly unfolding in which woman, recipient of the mystery of creation, was also the Priestess of the tribe. Sorceress, seeress, keeper of the keys of birth, healing and death, her archetype is Isis, veiled upon a throne. I do not think she was that clubwoman, mother of weeping little boys, who is the ferocious would-be matriarch of today.
I see her ample-breasted, large-thewed, black-maned, eyes flashing with battle, tender with love and withdrawn in mystery as she fulfilled the needs of herself, her mate, her children and her tribe. I do not think she was frigid, or sterile, as are the modern priestesses of the free life.
It was she who sat at the temple gate by the waters of Babylon and gave herself to a stranger. Not to one man did she give herself in that rite, but to all men, and therefore to God. And how much greater is her service than that of those nuns who deny man and therefore God in their lack of charity.
Look upon her now in her nakedness, this glorious whore called woman. Behold her chanting a war cry, riding a steed of the Saga—Semiramis, Vicingetorix—Brunhild. Is she not admirable?
Behold her in the chambers of the night, her cheeks flushed, her eyes large, her mouth moist with honey and sweet with fire, giving the ecstasy and anguish of her body utterly in love. Is she not magnificent!
Follow her into the temple of the forest, and see by what wondrous rites she invokes the godhead upon the tribe. Where is pale, sad, chaste Mary in comparison with this vision? Why, if they came to crucify her son, she would seize a sword and slay until men ran screaming before that fury. That, or if need be nail him up with her own hands. Who has conjured up this meek, mewling, pipsqueak of a woman, from what pot of cabbage soup? Surely some tradesman with the soul of a piss-ant.
For there is a woman that will suck a man's soul down to hell, and utterly destroy him, save he be a man indeed. Is she not a demon? Verily she is a demon from the deepest pit, and none but he Magian King, master of the sword or will, shall ever call her mate. It is a subtlety of the Cup that it conquers by yielding, and yields to conquer, and thus for every goddess there is a demon averse. Even as high as the head in heaven, thus far down go the roots in hell, and this is the blessedness of the true saint, the lover of BABALON, that he has achieved the marriage of heaven and hell.
There is the law for the little ones of earth, and it is written, "Thou shalt not transgress." But BABALON is beyond the Law and the assembly, and who would win her must transgress the law, and win to the solitude of anarchy and darkness. For it is also written "thou shalt spill out thy blood to the last drop."
Oh woman, into what dark and awful bondage you have gone down—the dupe of priests, the tool of knaves, the slave of fools—in the name of propriety, of virtue, of male superiority. What fires have lighted your shame—the stakes, the chains, the whips. What gutters have known your degradation, and what gilded breeding pens! And, worst shame of all—you yourself have maintained that rotten tissue of pretences, to the enslavement of yourself and your sisters. And what a terrible revenge you have taken—you, who hold the keys of life and death. How blind was man in his folly and how he has suffered for it.
But all these things, degradation, vengeance, folly, are but the cloud-shadows across the face of the eternal woman that is BABALON. It is she who reigns in the heart of every woman and who is the desire of every man. Therefore I say, Invoke Her!
Envision her, this mighty woman—this goddess—this "circle of stars of whom our Father is but the younger brother." Imagine her, whose song is the song of the sea, whose heart is the heart of the earth, she at whose laughter the flowers blossom in the spring, at whose touch the earth is made fertile. Call to her—fear her not—for is she not woman—tender-mysterious-alluring? She is the essence of woman—raised to her own power, set loose in herself.
II. The Angel and the Sword A. How Paradise [is] made of what is. 1. Love being an overflowing of fulness, receiving a sort of giving, and happiness a measure of adequacy. 2. Youth being a period of exploration of what is, with due consideration for the mysteries. 3. Maturity being a period of enjoying what is, and to hell with the mysteries. 4. Age being a period for the enjoyment of the mysteries. 5. And Paradise consisting of being altogether what we are.
B. How Hell is made of what is not. 1. Hate being a yearning of emptiness, fear a sort of premature rejection, and misery a measure of inadequacy. 2. Youth being a period of rejection of what is in favor of what should be, or in reaction against the same. 3. Maturity being the deepening conviction that it is not worth the price, and the determination that others shall pay this price in full. 4. Age being the period of hating and being hated. 5. And Hell consisting of being other = less than we are.
C. The Angel and the image of God. 1. Our parents being the only Gods we know. 2. And in ourselves we deeply desire to please. 3. The Jews have made an image of God that speaks, saying "Thou shalt not." 4. This is our God. 5. Being our parents' God. 6. And shall be our children's God. 7. Saying In sweat shalt thou labor. in sin take thy pleasure in sorrow bear and bring forth. Thou shalt hate thy seed, thy seed shall hate thee. In unlove shalt thou be thy not self. Men. Hell."
D. The sword being the law set every way against the gate of paradise. 1. Man being set against himself, the law is also set against itself. 2. The law of nature against the law of man. 3. The law of matter against the law of spirit.
[Editor's note: A section missing in and not transcribed in the typescript. The text resumes in the next Subsection "E".]
5. Some saying that if Life = Death, then not life = not death. This shows the formula of the Christians (Victim). 6. Or that if God is crucified, then to be crucified is to be God. This being the formula of the Jews (Scapegoat). 7. That matter = mother, and spirit alone avails. The formula of mysticism. (Priest of God = Fem[inine] daughter.) 8. That spirit = father, and matter alone avails. The formula of science (Priest of nature = M[asculine] son.)
F. The gate of Paradise being so narrow that only one at a time may pass through. 1. Though it is by two that an entrance is effected. 2. Still it is the total self only discovered by the self which must pass into many mirrors. 3. So those who would lead the multitudes to Paradise, and those who would save the many are deluded. 4. They see themselves in others, but fail to see the others in themselves. 5. As one crying peace, unknowing that his own concealed hatred is war. 6. Or one crying war, and thereby seeking to slay the night monsters of his dark self.
G. Yet again, the angel is death, and his sword time. 1. Death being no man's servant, or time shut up in any place. 2. Neither is death cozened or propitiated, nor time tricked or forgotten. 3. Yet they will mask for fools, and walk in dreams. 4. But for the whole self death is a guard against not-life, and time a guard against unchange. 5. When the bowl is broken, and when the cord is loosed, all selves rejected and renounced put off their averse masks and sit in judgment. 6. This is judgment: all are beautiful, and no payment was necessary. This is the last of the hells.
H. Pasturing upon the upland meadows of eternity. 1. Come unto me, my demons, at last we will take off the masks. 2. Unmasked, there your names were need and desire. Here there is no need or desire, and your names are being and going, the two transitives of love.
III. Wormwood Star What becomes of the star that burns so fiercely in some adolescent horizons? It falls surely, but is it extinguished? Passionate and maudlin, ambitious and naive, egotistical and selfless, criminal and transcendental, it burns beneath the waters, and these waters are exceedingly bitter.
And what is this star but the human passions energized by the heroic myth until they burn with an abnormal light—imagination fueled by passion until it coruscates in the octave scale—in ultraviolet as spiritual passion, in the visible range, and in the infra-dark a criminality, psychosis and disease.
Passion roused to the pitch of the heroic can be tolerated in our own culture, only when it is sublimated (and even then considerably diluted, in art). The heroic is antisocial and in every sense of our use of the word. It is anti-collective, anti-democratic, anti-communal. It is dangerous, disruptive, often disastrous in terms of our social values.
Siegfried, Arthur, Gawain, even Jesus would rightly be treated as criminals in our culture, simply because they would be so unsafe, so unsocial.
IV. [Untitled] If the knowledge of Lucifer is the knowledge of Hell, then the essence of damnation is the belief that hell is not hell, and the continual disappointment and frustration of discovering anew that it really is; and of having somehow to explain the fact with palliative platitudes. The damned find hell where they seek paradise, and find paradise only where they fear hell.
Then the only possible comfort to the damned is this knowledge, squarely faced and never forgotten; that hell is Hell. The transcendent and quixotic paradox that Hell is also Paradise pertains only to the Heroic.
Hell consists of the submission of the heroic ideal to convention or security, to fear or self-indulgence, or to any illusion of the partial self which is inferior to the total self.
The heroic ideal is the aspiration to transcend limitations—by love and understanding, by passion and violence, by will and discipline, by all and any means that will achieve the knowledge and liberation of the total self.
|