Charles Williams & the Order of the Golden Dawn

This is the second installment in a series:
Biography
The Order of the Golden Dawn
Personality & Influence
Writing Style
Themes
Bibliography




Since our dear friend CW was a Rosicrucian or a member of the Order of the Golden Dawn for at least a few years, maybe longer, I decided I need to do a little research on what that society was. The following information is garnered and edited from several different websites, listed at the end of a Wikipedia article. I would be grateful for any additional information and/or corrections.


THE ORDER OF THE GOLDEN DAWN
The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn was a magical order of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, practicing a form of theurgy and spiritual development. It was probably the single greatest influence on twentieth century western occultism. This organization promotes the teachings of the original Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, a magical fraternity founded in London in 1888 by Dr. William Wynn Westcott and Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers.

It was based in part on an elusive set of cipher documents. The Golden Dawn is based on the Secret Doctrine which was taught to the initiates of the priesthood in the temples of the past, which formed the Lesser and Greater Mysteries of Egypt, Chaldea, Greece, etc. This arcane science was the original fount from which have sprung all the various exoteric religions of the ages and in which the Founders of those religions were well versed. Concepts of magic and ritual that became core elements of many other traditions, including Wicca, Thelema and other forms of magical spirituality popular today, are drawn from the Golden Dawn tradition. The stated goal of the corporation is educational, spiritual, and philosophical. In the Ancient Mysteries the knowledge of the Lord of the Universe, the knowledge of Man and his relation thereto, as well as the sub- and super-human beings, the unseen laws operating in both the Macrocosm and the Microcosm were made practical by the detailed knowledge of how to develop the latent powers in man and how to control, dominate and operate non-human beings and forces. The Initiate of the Mysteries was therefore not only a sage but a powerful magician who could at will bring to pass seeming miracles. By reason of their wisdom and power they became great spiritual beings transcending the human stage of evolution, and achieving that alchemical transmutation of the base metal of the lower and material nature into the pure gold of the spiritual, and fixing this by the influx of the divine spirit itself, becoming Christoi—possessors of the Stone of the Wise, the Elixir of Life, the Summum Bonum. Initiation into the Esoteric Order of the Golden Dawn is the mystical doorway to deep esoteric knowledge and the power of the magi of light.

The Magical Order of the Golden Dawn is an initiatic order descended from the Esoteric Order of the Golden Dawn established in 1888. The Order is a non-denominational spiritual order and aspirants are encouraged to use their own spiritual path as part of their rituals and meditations. The Magical Order teaches candidates how to contact and work with both their Guardian Angels and Spirit Guides. There are five levels? manifestations? persons? of The Creator:
1. The Creator of All That Is (Spirit)
2. The Creator Incarnate in Your Mind (Air)
3. The "Father" aspect of the Creator (Fire)
4. The "Mother" aspect of the Creator (Water)
5. The Creator Incarnate in your Body (Earth)
While some Golden Dawn traditions believe there is one and only one name for each aspect of deity, experience teaches us that any name you choose will work just as effectively as any other name. Your intention is far more important that the name you assign to the Divine. But you may certainly memorize the Aramaic, Buddhist, Christian, Druidic, Egyptian, Greek, Hebrew, Hindu, Jewish, Muslim, Norse, Pagan, Wicca or any other Divine names of your choice.







So how could CW, a good Anglican, be a member of this quasi-occult organization?

Members of the Golden Dawn have a profound respect for Christianity, and are in no sense hostile to the Roman Catholic Church, nor yet to the other forms of Christian belief, provided that on the more Unitarian side they do not too far gravitate towards Atheism. They especially consider that the Roman Catholic Church has resolutely preserved in its Ceremonies the August Symbols of the Divine Wisdom. The ancient Rosicrucians had to be Christians, unlike modern occultists, who have a rather disturbed relationship with the figure of Jesus Christ. The modern occultist identifies him with a highly illuminated Man or a metaphorical Force or divine essence that is totally abstracted from the Person called Jesus of Nazareth.

Related terms:
[caveat lector: I have not read all these website; proceed at your own risk]

Rosicrucianism
Hermeticism
The Western Esoteric Tradition
The August Order of the Mystic Rose
Qabalah/kabala
Alchemy
Tarot (relevant for The Greater Trumps
Temple of Isis Holy Mother (Greater Trumpsagain)

Biography of Charles Williams

In connection with my work for the upcoming Encyclopedia of Christian Literature, I'm continuing to write a series of posts about Charles Williams. Keep an eye open for thoughts, ramblings, and other installments each day or so for a while. These are pretty much just notes right now, rather than smooth lucid brilliant prose [like I usually write, right?]. I would be delighted to read your feedback on these posts, especially if you notice errors, omissions, or other inaccuracies. Projected topics include:
Biography
The Order of the Golden Dawn
Personality & Influence
Writing Style
Themes
Bibliography




Charles Walter Stansby Williams (20 September 1886 - 15 May 1945), British

Charles Williams was born on 20 of September, 1886, in North London (Islington). His father, Richard Walter Stansby Williams, was a clerk, then later opened a stationary store. Later in life, Richard lost his sight. Charles's mother's name was Mary; he had one sister, Edith, who was three years younger than himself. They were Anglicans. His first education outside the home came at St. Mary Magdalene. In 1894 the family moved to St. Albans, where he attended the Abbey School. He was confirmed in the Anglican church on 27 March 1901.

In 1903 Charles was awarded a scholarship to University College, London, but had to drop out after two years because his parents could not afford to keep him in school. He secured a job at a Methodist bookroom in London in 1904, and then began work at the Oxford University Press on 9 June 1908; he remained with the Press for the rest of his life. He worked his way up from a proofreading assistant or reader, to ______________ [what? does anyone know?]. In 1908 he met and fell in love with Florence Conway; they carried on a romance for nine years before they finally married on 12 April 1917; Charles was 30, Florence was _____________ [how old?]. During those years of courtship (CW was unfit for service in WWI [_____________ why? does anyone know?]), Charles wrote two books of complex love poetry, involving themes of renunciation and the theological, sanctifying power of love. Apparently Florence mocked him for loudly reciting poetry in public; he nicknamed her “Michal” (after King David’s wife; see II Samuel 6:14-23) and the nickname stuck. She even referred to herself by that nickname.

Williams was a member of the Salvator Mundi Temple of the Fellowship of the Rosy Cross, an offshoot of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, for either four-five years or for his entire adult life, according to various sources. Through this mystical associate, he met Evelyn Underhill and William Butler Yeats. [keep your eyes open for an upcoming post on Rosicrucianism and the Golden Dawn].

In 1922 Charles and Florence's only child, Michael, was born. Charles began to lecture through the London County Council at the Holloway Literacy Institute on literature in the evenings in 1924 [?] and continued until 1939. The Press moved to Amen House in 1924. This same year, Phyllis Jones joined the staff of the Press as librarian—and Charles fell in love with her. For the next nineteen [can anyone confirm that number?] years, Phyllis was his muse, his subject-matter, the index to all his ideas, and the center of his theology of Romantic Love. One of the centers, because he intentionally continued to nurture his marriage to Florence (and, as far as we can tell, never consummated the relationship with Phyllis, thus remaining at least physically faithful to Florence). Williams believed that marriage follows the pattern of the earthly life of Christ, including the times of temptation, crucifixion, and death. He developed this idea in Outlines of Romantic Theology, published posthumously. Charles struggled to use both his marriage and his emotional affair as ways of sanctification. But Phyllis, whom he names Celia, was his chosen image, the symbol and embodiment of his Arthurian cycle--to which he related all the events of his life and poetry. Sometime in 1926 or ’27 he wrote a volume of poems, The Century, about/to Phyllis. They also carried on an extensive, intellectual, passionate, affectionate correspondence. She eventually began a love affair with another married man, Gerard Hopkins, who also worked with Oxford University Press, then in September of 1934 married Billie Somervaille, then divorced him two years later and returned to the Press and to Williams’ company.

The Oxford University Press was evacuated from London to Oxford in 1939. Williams moved there, leaving Michal and Michael in London. Michael often came to stay with his father. Williams joined C. S. Lewis’s informal group, The Inklings, with whom he shared manuscripts and ideas. His influence can be felt in Lewis's later work, especially That Hideous Strength. Lewis adored, almost worshipped him; Tolkien was a bit more suspicious and possibly jealous of Lewis’s ardour. Through Lewis's manipulation, Williams gave a guest-lecture at Magdalen College, Oxford University, on Milton's Comus on 29 Jan 1940. He finally received an honorary MA from Oxford 18 February 1943, and later became a member of the Dante Society. Williams was only a member Lewis's unofficial society for six years, when he died unexpectedly in 1945 [__________ of what? does anyone know?]. Lewis tells the poignant tale: Lewis was on his way to a meeting of the Inklings, heard that Charles was in hospital, and decided to stop and visit him on the way. Upon arrival at the hospital and enquiring after CW, Lewis was told that CW had just died that morning.

The Myth of Memory (short version)

For the July poem of the month I posted a long poem, and Rosie correctly pointed out that "less is more"; the poem seemed both repetitive and wandering. Inspired by her critique and by an upcoming contest asking for poems of 40 lines or fewer (and assisted most ably by my long-suffering roommate), I've revised it. Voila:


THE MYTH OF MEMORY

I finally learned to dive,
and found joy hovered there:
a sphere of longing sublimed with the lake.
Below me, an indeterminate color hung
like shadows cast on grass;
above, desire quivering in a sunlit circle.

Well-mouth, cave-mouth, it shone:
compelling, fixing my imagination
on its unknown and unlabeled hues.
That strange, inviting light held me;
I crystallized, became the prism,
casting scattered shafts
from each toe and finger, every hair.
Is it that light I long for in my dreams?

In an underwater limbo
suspense and longing intermingled.
Delicious, like a taste;
refreshing, as if I drank and it were pure;
wet and pulsing like the act of love.
That unity in isolation seemed
the archetype of other, severed, pleasures:
I swam submerged and drowning in desire.

What did I want? Not that muddy lake,
that real dive split in fragments by my five
unpracticed senses, spluttering in fact.
Not to catch the fascinating disc of sunlight
on the surface. Not to stay and drown;
no, not to stay and contemplate.
Fish do not live suspended in a state
of constant wonder—or perhaps they do.
Maybe that explains the lack of eyelids,
always awake, always in sudden shock.

Everything that happens goes too fast.
I never felt desire while I dove.

And yet, I read my recollections
as if feelings will be real,
as if every ecstasy will be itself
and every moment, lingering.
I live like longing will be unified and re-embodied
in the consummation and consecration of desire.

~ Admonit

The Bible as [also/only] Literature

My last BreadLoaf summer is slipping by.... If you would like to read more about classes, lectures, etc., you can take a look at Cafe Cobblestone, the blog my roommate Teresa is keeping of this summer.

One of the classes I'm taking is "Milton & the Bible." For the first three weeks, we're studying only the Bible -- a necessary result of the Biblical illiteracy of most modern students, but also a rich look at the history of the texts themselves and the "issues" with which Milton himself would have grappled. We've covered a lot of ground already (today was our last day on the Hebrew Bible, otherwise known as the Old Testament), some of it very hard for me to encounter. There's lot of "higher criticism", which puts the composition of most books much later than the traditional dates, thereby eliminating predictive prophecy and reflecting an emergence idea of the Jewish religion; textual redaction, which suggests alternative readings and ostensibly discovers errors or omissions or additions in/to the earliest MSS; and generally disrespectful language describing an insecure, cruel, fickle, anthropomorphic God projected or created by the uncivilized imagination of a primitive people. [I forget why I signed up for this class...] Hard stuff for an Evangelical/Fundamentalist/whatever-I-am to swallow (even though I am of the more open brand that likes to question and study and hear and consider).

But wait! Today reminded me why I signed up for this class, why classes like this are valuable & necessary & inspiring. Today was a day of breathless beauty. I am whirling, inspired and confused by the new idea the professor presented to us. The class is taught by Jeffrey Shoulson, who is a teacher at the University of Miami, and has written several books, including Milton & the Rabbis.

Now, here's the idea he shared today. It's essentially that the Bible is only literature -- but wait! Don't pass judgment yet. We were reading Ezekiel's first vision, the one that's usually called the vision of the Chariot or something like that. You can read it here: Ezekiel 1:4-28.



Blake's illustration of Ezekiel

We talked about what it meant when Ezekiel ate the scroll, which had "woe" written on it, and then the scroll tasted sweet -- not bitter, as one would expect woe to taste. Prof. Shoulson suggested that this is a microcosm of all the ways in which Ezekiel (and, to some extent, his listeners & readers) thought he knew what the message meant/contained, but was surprised by the actual [sensory] experience of the message. The experience of the vision, then, is more important than any interpretation of it. This was a mystical moment, yes, but not any particularly quantifiable or definable moment. Yet there is a whole tradition of Jewish mysticism, older than even that of the Kabbala, based on this vision. I think it's called Merkava ("Chariot") mysticism . But Prof. Shoulson said this is a misunderstanding of that passage, or at least that it is an allegorical reading, and that all allegorical readings are non-helpful in approaching mystical or transcendent moments. He said it is designed to be approached as just a vision and not a set of symbols designed to point beyond themselves. A vision is an experiential moment, not an interpretive locus. We should read vision as vision, and text as event. This is what is suggested by the eating the scroll event: word becomes flesh, flesh becomes word.

There are other moments in Scripture that express God's glory in terms of a chariot, of natural phenomenon, of enthronement, or of worship in the temple service, such as Psalm 104, Ps. 68:4, Ps. 11:4, Isaiah 66:15, Habakkuk 3:8-13, and Exodus 20:4-5. Ezekiel refers to all of these (windstorm, lightening, living creatures, wheels, a throne), yet he seems to subvert traditional visionary identifications by never naming "The Chariot." The vision itself is unnamed, and Ezekiel attempts to overwhelm his listeners/readers with an excess of detail that serves to be anti-iconic. Ezekiel avoids the containment of God in any single image; thus, his vision has no specific source or referent.

Furthermore, translating an allegory leads to loss: extracting the kernel of meaning leaves you with only the kernel. Some quality of the text as mystery is magical, significant, and opening it with an interpretive key leads to loss due to simplification and definition. [NB: I think this is why my beloved Inklings used story & myth, not allegory, to suggest and hint and show spiritual truths, rather than creating a symbolic puzzle to be decoded piece by piece.] Therefore, Shoulson said, we should approach the text of Ezekiel as literary and lyrical, but not expository or discursive. Indeed, this might be a good way to approach the entire Bible.

The underlying idea is that you can't substitute anything for the visionary experience itself. It doesn't mean anything but itself. You can't make a little interpretive table and say "the wheels - such-and-such, the creatures signify so-and-so." The meaning of the vision is nothing beyond what it is. Ezekiel grapples with transcendence and ineffability and inadvertently starts a poetic tradition of showing the non-referential quality of visionary encounters. The presence of anthropomorphic and bestial metaphors for God do not suggest that He is like that, but just emphasize that these images are all the visionary was left with. Ezekiel piles on the details, but the more he says, the less we know. The very act of writing comes smack up against this insoluble problem of the ineffable. Ezekiel thinks he will write something and then it comes out differently. Over and over he writes phrases like "it seemed" or even "it seemed like a resemblance of"; his vision is a vision of a likeness or a likeness of a vision. It is a vision of the undepictable, of the thing that eludes full rational grasp; the attempt to represent in language something beyond language.

The Scripture, then (or at least the visionary bits), is the constant struggle to represent the unrepresentable, to express sublime inexpressible experience.

So those are basically my class notes from today. But now I would like to speculate on some of the larger implications of this idea. Let me emphasize that the following thoughts are my own, and were not stated in class today. However, I do think think that these conclusions naturally follow from the above ideas, and are implied by such a literary reading of the Scripture. The implication is twofold.

1. The Bible is only a literary text, with no particular discernable theological meaning or correspondence.
2. The Bible is a literary as well as a theological text, and should be enjoyed in all of its ambiguity, symbolism, mystery, and indeterminacy.

The first of these suggestions is, to me, heretical, and I won't follow it any further. The second, however, has interesting implications. Wouldn't it suggest that, if vision is only vision and means nothing beyond itself, that all of the debatable passages of the Bible are really and truly struggling with representation, and all of our conflicting interpretations are likewise attempts, rather than definitive interpretations?

I don't know. The suggestion scares me. What do you think? Do you think there's any possibility that, rather than paedo-baptists drowning baptists and Catholics massacring Calvinists and Calvinists burning Unitarians, maybe we should look at the text more like a 19th century poem, whose meaning is rich and true but not necessarily determinate, or may be not singular, or at least not simple.

Of course this can go too far. Could it be a solution to Christian divisiveness, or is it heresy?

Charles Williams & Synaesthesia

Synaesthesia: A Key to Charles Williams & The Meaning of Life

This is the abstract for a paper I hope to write someday. Do you have any ideas of a conference or periodical that might be interested in a paper like this? I'm limited to the NorthEastern US for the moment, or else I'd submit to that CW conference in England!

ABSTRACT: Synaesthesia, according to the OED, is “the production of a sense impression relating to one sense or part of the body by stimulation of another sense of part of the body.” Derived from the Greek for blended feeling, it is used as an analogy: a figure of speech in which the data of one sense is interpreted in terms of another. This is how Charles Williams wrote, and perhaps how his often befuddled readers can better comprehend the meanings and patterns in his apparent obscurity. In his fiction, Williams always connected natural/phenomenal events with supernatural/ archnatural/ noumenal realities in a direct, startling, and physical way. Thus, the Platonic Archetypes manifest themselves as visible animals; the power of the Tarots creates tangible dirt; intellectual corruption has a hideous odor like decay.
This is mode of operation is not foreign to the Christian church. The sacraments are synaesthetic: physical water, bread, and wine correspond to intangible events and realities. Christ Himself made the ultimate synaesthetic statement: “He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty” (John 6:35). How can coming assuage hunger and believing quench thirst? Only synaesthetically.
The incarnation itself was a synaesthetic figure of speech—“The Word became flesh.” Perhaps all material existence is analogous to the higher plain of reality in which we will have our sins literally washed away, ingest Christ, and co-inhabit one another. Williams called this co-inherence. His labyrinthine prose is an attempt to hold the interrelations of every perception with every sense: sacramentally, synthetically, synaesthetically.


Now here's just a funny poem of mine that's related to today's topic, for your reading enjoyment

Sonnet LXXVI
—Synesthesia—

The grass begins to green, but still the trees
stand dull and hueless. One bright blue jay flings
extraordinary sky-and-white, like sea-
foam curling wave tips, past my car and sings
a silent tune of color contrasts, sharp
as sunlight, smooth as oceans, sudden as
this fleck of sparrow-flutter on the tar
consuming crumbs: a brown and brave ménage.
“Move, birdies! Move!” I cry; the quick flock moves
in time, and Spring’s still free to seed the earth
with sparrow blossoms and bold blue jay blooms,
with fields of waving teal and seas of dirt:
brown on brown and blue on brown have wings;
I can hear them fly and I can see them sing.



~ Admonit

Descent into Hell

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm writing a little piece about the life, work, themes, and significance of Charles Williams. I have just finished reading (and in some cases re-reading) his seven novels. I'm studying at Middlebury College's BreadLoaf School of English for the summer, finishing my Master's Degree, so my non-class-related reading has been slim. However, this Charles Williams project is due at the end of July, so I'll have to fit him in & you'll probably be reading a bit about him here until then. For now....

Review of Descent into Hell by Charles Williams

William Blake once wrote: "For every thing that lives is Holy" (in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell); and yet, Christ made division between subjects of the kingdom vs. slaves to the darkness when He said: "He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left" (Matthew 25:33). In Descent into Hell, Charles Williams sees beyond that fundamental opposition, which is a byproduct of temporal reality, into the deeper truth where those contradictory ends of a rope join and are one. That juncture might be expressed thus: "'Everything is permissible'—but not everything is beneficial. 'Everything is permissible'—but not everything is constructive. Nobody should seek his own good, but the good of others" (1 Cor. 10:23-24). Or it might be put into a narrative in which one character carries another's fear for her, introduces her to life under the Mercy of the Omnipotence, and teaches her how to carry others' burdens. Then when she tries to reach out and save a man who has chosen despair and death, the mentor can say:

'I think he has seen the Gorgon's head that was hidden from Dante in Dis,' he said. 'Well. . . Pray for him.'
...'But, Peter, ought I to do anything?'
'You can't do anything unless he choose,' he answer. 'If he doesn't choose. . . . Pray. Good-bye. Go in peace.' (Descent into Hell p. 214)

But let me go back a bit and recount something of the story of this spiritual thriller first, then explain this quote in context.

As he usually does, Williams creates several threads and traces them throughout this story, weaving the most shockingly incongruent narratives together into something so true it must be beautiful. The first thread is that of "The Play." A great poet (the best since Shakespeare, and maybe as good as The Bard), Peter Stanhope, has just finished his latest play, and his little uppity home community ("Battle Hill") is about to begin its first rehearsals. Stanhope and his profound, visionary, masque-like art stand in colorful, quiet contrast to his neighbors -- efficient sinners -- and their various brands of hubris. Towards the end of the book, this thread draws with it an astonishing aesthetic: art comes from silence. Speech is born out of and in silence. Every word, line, gesture, and action works with and in an undiminished silence. That silence is the stillness of the peace that passes understanding, the peace of death into life.
The second thread is that of a doppleganger. Yup. A ghostly or spiritual double. This is the double of a young lady named Pauline, and it scares the Hell out of her, literally. Or, more accurately, it scares her out of the way to Hell in which all self-directed people walk in their active or passive refusal of Mercy. This copy of herself has haunted her since childhood. It is her secret terror, the unbearable sickening agony that drives her into houses, into company, out of solitude, for fear she will meet it and have to look it in the face. But, Mercifully, her fear is taken from her so that she can face it -- face herself -- look straight into the eyes of her own shining and glorious joy. How? By means of Williams's signature theme: a startling exposition and application of redemption he calls The Doctrine of Substitution or The Way of Exchange. As easily and tranquilly as if her were offering her a ride home, Stanhope offers to take her fear and carry it for her. And does. But read the book to find out how and to read the language in which Williams frames and signifies this profound working-out of Atonement between human beings.

Yet even before her glorious salvation from the terror of her double, Pauline is a thoughtful person. A "real" person, unlike the other chattering superficialities who people the book. One of those chatterers, our third thread, is a pretentious little actress named Adela. Adela is unremarkable. She is a rotten actor, but aspires to the directorship. She is a pretty, plumb, nice little devourer; all her existence is directed inward, to feed her petty desires and pettish pleasures.
But that doesn't seem so bad, does it? She sounds like just an average person. Exactly. So it takes another character, Lawrence Wentworth, to show just how damnable -- literally -- average selfishness can be. Wentworth has a crush on Adela, but she is "going steady" with a brawny and handsome realist named Hugh. Wentworth fantasizes about her, and gradually trains his spirit to feed itself on its fantasies to the exclusion of reality. In a parallel, but antithetical, move to the assimilation of Pauline's doppleganger, Wentworth creates a succubus out of his own imagination and establishes an erotic relationship with that being of nothingness. He retreats more and more into his own lurid, sordid realm of bodily and mental perversion, climbing down down down a rope towards a Hell of his own making. Damnation is in the details neglected or the others selves rejected in favour of a bloated and worshipped self.
Similarly, an unnamed workman, worn out with a life of ill treatment, commits suicide by hanging himself with a rope very like the one down which Wentworth is climbing in his mind. It just so happens that the man hangs himself from Wentworth's house -- before it is built. The dead man, in the past, and Wentworth, in his sullied mind, stand elbow to elbow unaware of each other. What? you say. Yup again. Here is one of Williams' hallmarks: Simultaneity -- the simultaneity of disjunct times in a single location. There is another character from the past occupying the same Hill. He is Pauline's ancestor, and he was burnt to death at the stake by Bloody Mary some 400 years earlier. Pauline hears about his martyrdom, and so the threads are drawn together. Stanhope suggests that she can carry her ancestor's fear for him, notwithstanding the intervening centuries.

And here I am, having fallen into the trap of simply retelling the book rather than reviewing it. Descent into Hell really is CW's best book. Place of the Lion remains my favorite, due to a personal fondness for the eternal frolicking of Platonic archetypes, but Descent is, I believe, the best crafted. In it are all of his pet doctrines, his distinctive themes: Substitution, Simultaneity, Silence, Serenity, timeless Christian truths retold in complete freshness without the diction of dogma, The Unity of Body & Soul in tension with the Dualism of Self (which St. Paul described as Old Man & New Man), and the power of poetry. The pacing of the book is admirable, with cycles of intensity alternating with passages of vague visionary stasis and tranquil revelations unfolding. The characters, at least the main ones (Stanhope, Pauline, Pauline's grandmother Margaret, and -- to a lesser extent -- Wentworth) are better drawn than most. His characters tend to be, not exactly caricatures or 2-dimensional, but a little too drawn to type. The minor ones in this book are, too: Adela, Lily Sammile, Hugh, and Williams does tend to introduce extraneous characters rather without preparation and sometimes with follow-up. If I were to make one complaint, it would be a strange one: The book goes on too long. Not in number of pages, not in interest, but the structure feels a little impaired to me. I felt the same in All Hallow's Eve, as if there were another half of a book tacked on after a natural stopping-point. But I understand what Williams is doing here. One stopping-point would be right after Pauline faces her doppleganger and offers her joy to the martyr in exchange for his fear. That would be like ending a Jane Austen novel at the wedding. But Williams needs to show what happens after the wedding. Does the couple get along? What happens after the honeymoon glow fades? Do they have children? Likewise, we need to know if Pauline's new marriage to the Omnipotence will be faithful and fruitful. We need to watch her little dips and doubts and then her victories. We need to know that an author can create, describe, and follow a truly good characters on past her change of heart.
And, sadly, we need to watch Wentworth's descent. That, after all, is the title of the book. And as much as we -- and Williams -- would like all human beings to be saved, exclusion and choice are worked, for whatever reason, into the fabric of this creation. The Devil is in the details. Each little choice, of whether to go out or stay in, of how to spend your time, of what books to read, is a step Further Up and Further In or another hand-over-hand on the rope into Hell. And that's just the way it is. Why it is that way would be another book. Or would it?

July Poem of the Month

THE MYTH OF MEMORY

I finally learned to dive,
and found joy mysterious and unsettling
hovered there: a sphere of longing
sublimed with the lake.
Below me all appeared an indeterminate lightlessness
the color of afternoon through spring-new leaves
or dawn’s shadow cast on grass;
above: desire quivering in a sunlit circle.

Well-mouth, cave-mouth, it shone
like virgin oil spilled on the surface
of a sea-born Paradise: compelling,
fixing my imagination
on its unknown and unlabled hues.
What color did it cast?
—I do not know.
That strange, inviting light held me;
I crystallized, became the prism,
casting scattered shafts
from each toe and finger, every hair.
Is it that light I long for in my dreams?

That shade of light
from woods-between-the-worlds
made mystery. In an underwater limbo,
suspense and longing intermingled.
I remember yellow, brown, and green;
and then a fading gradient into monochrome.
I was the center of something
all-surrounding, a type of solipsistic
smoothness drenching grace
over my land-clumsy arms and legs.
Delicious, like a taste;
refreshing, as if I drank and it were pure;
wet and pulsing like the act of love.
That unity in isolation seemed
the archetype of other, severed, pleasures:
I swam submerged and drowning in desire.

What did I desire? Not that muddy lake,
that real dive split in fragments by my five
unpracticed senses, spluttering in fact.
Not to catch the fascinating disc
of sunlight on the surface.
Not to stay and drown;
no, not to stay and contemplate, for
the very brevity of underwater music
gave a glimpse behind the veil.
Fish, submerged forever,
do not live suspended in a state
of constant wonder—or perhaps they do.
Maybe that explains the lack of eyelids,
gazing in a perpetuity of awe,
always awake, always in sudden shock.
Alba-cool, slick as satisfaction.

Everything that happens goes too fast,
and nothing is, but only was or has been.
It must be in memory meaning grows.
Without it, sehnsucht hovers
undescribed and unidentified,
while dives and sun-discs dissipate in time.

I never felt desire when I dove, but fancy joy
had stabbed me underwater
somewhere in the past.
Then I have longing only second-hand,
or not at all. It is just one of those
sensations people speak of, poets say.
If every minute lives at one remove,
have I ever had one feeling of my own?
Nothing is, but made in memory,
and my immortal longings mere charade.

I yearn to have a yearning of my own—
or say I do. I read significance in himmelslust
as if feelings will be real,
as if every ecstasy will be itself
and every moment, lingering.
I live like longing unifies and re-embodies
in its consummation
and the consecration of desire.


~ Admonit