Ancient Magic: A Practitioner’s Guide to the Supernatural in Greece and Rome by Philip Matyszak
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Magic in ancient Greece and Rome was an art of crafting natural force with a bit of help from the world of gods and spirits wonderous to the user without fully knowing them. Contrary to traditional orthodox Christian teachings, magic was not associated by default with sorcery privileged to an esoteric spiritual elitist often dark and sinister. To the ancient Greeks and Romans, magic was their belief system, part of their modus vivendi in everyday life from slaves to emperors in the sense that we go to doctors or counselors. In a word, magic, as we understand now, was not so much deviltry as a variety of rituals of individual petitions pleaded for the fulfillment, which even the tremendous ancient minds regarded worthwhile to record.
Before the era of Christianity, the concept of magic was often interchangeably used with the knowledge of natural and supernatural worlds, which the ancients saw as not impossible to cross in between and thus believed the ghosts and the afterlife. Plato and Pliny, the Elder, advised no mortals go to graves alone after dark because there the restless souls of the dead not crossing the Styx, wandered. The most significant of the ghost story is Pliny the Younger’s letter to his friend Licinius Sura. He tells of the philosopher Athenodorus, a stoic astronomer and tutor to Octavian, the future emperor, witnessing a ghost of an old man in shackles showing his improper burial site.
Magic encompasses auguries and omens by the flights of birds, spells, and potions to charm the figures of desires, and the astrological signs in the ascendant at births and the sun, all of which to make uncertain futures known as guides to walk the paths of life to arrive at the fates. Matyszak tells the reader in the capacity of a Virgil leading Dante to the Underworld that seers at Delphi and Cumae were relatively easy to foretell the futures, which were unchangeable. Their acute intuition took a dreamy leap to poetically versed oracle pronouncement in the background of ethylene atmosphere and told what the petitioners could do at their best to deal with what laid ahead of them because there was no more than one fixed future.
The book invites the reader into the world of magic like never before because knowledge is a composite of Herodotus, Plutarch, Pliny the Younger, Socrates, and Plato. They took the extraordinary subject seriously because it was part of their daily lives bordering on a thin line of the spiritual world that was as real as they were. The book is written in a language accessible to all spectrums of education and walks of life. It is philosophy, religion, and history magically mixed in the author’s magic potion of erudition that significantly produces learning charmed in natural wits.
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Tag: poems
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‘Ancient Magic’, by Philip Matyszak – book review
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Dionysian
He was angry with his brother
Whose beauty was brighter
So he watered a wreath of wrath
In libation of tears from Cocytus
And grew trees that bore fruits
That he held high triumphantly
To the sun that shone it brightly.
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‘The Lives of the Poets’, by Samuel Johnson – review
The Lives of the Poets by Samuel Johnson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Great writers are not necessarily great people in the integrity of their characters, which perhaps most of us know, and yet cannot help but associate the excellence in letters with the personal attributes of the writers simply because we are enchanted and gobsmacked by the mind. Samuel Johnson, an eminent English cultural critic of the 18th century, also knew about these somewhat restively volatile facts about famous writers and poets of his time. The result was these entertaining and informative composite biographies of the poets of his time with his trenchantly honest eyes and esteemed erudition to disembarrass the person of the poet from the genius of the poetry.
Originally written as a referencing preamble to an edition of The Poets of Great Britain complete from Chaucer to Churchill, Johnson’s supplementary prefaces became so popular that the booksellers decided they were worthy of separate publication under the subject title of this review. And there were reasons that make Johnson’s biographies of the eminent poets attractive among the insipid panegyrics to the famous. A good bio is read in a way a good novel or short story is enjoyed with characters that are differentiated from the common because of their recalcitrant individualism that gets away with the intellectual attraction and personal flairs despite their flaws. In this regard, Johnson’s wit and sagacity play an essential role in being an objective judge of the characters and their works to the extent that none of his subjective poets could escape from his hawk-eyed criticism, be that ever great or small. Johnson’s biography resembles Herodotus’ parataxis in narrating the accounts of people and events. It consists of a summary of the subject’s life; accounts of their personalities and analyses of their works. The individual narrative account became a history of the poet, which showed something about his work and indicated the person himself.For example, Johnson’s take on John Milton was so freshly revealing that it upended my view on the creator of The Paradise Lost. I used to think of Milton as a benevolent-looking wise poet whose blindness didn’t stun his will to knowledge and creativity and whose fatherly tenderness toward his daughters encouraged them to be his eyes and hands when the visions of the world became blackout totally for the poet. Instead, Milton was one of those who clamored for the liberty of others but did not grant liberty to others. He was an arrogant intellectual who disparaged the works of others whom he regarded as less intellectually esteemed than his standard, which was despotically biased in terms of impressive academic credentials. Milton’s poetry was intrinsically intellectual and not for the light-hearted pleasure of the heart roving through the meanders of fairyland. His elevated soul ascended in the sphere of the Form, the perfect beauty that was unattainable in this real world.
Johnson also cast somewhat contradicting masks on the creator of Gulliver’s Travels, Jonathan Swift. Like Ben Jonson’s iconic characters in his plays, Johnson’s Swift appeared to be both miserly and munificent, flaunting and humble, aloof and social. I particularly liked Swift because, unlike other writers of his time and of our time, he was not an ace student with flying colors on academic subjects. Swift was, however, a great student of learning, always pursuing and laboring to learn however long it might take. He was a man of industry and diligence, which made him all the more human and imitable because his genius was hard-won, not easy born. Methinks that Swift’s resilient spirit tinged with feistiness for an Anglican Church priest had to do with his Irishness. He was an Irish man at heart, in nature and soul. Johnson also attributed the protean imaginativeness and admiring independence of ideas to his Irishness that resulted in wondrous creatures during Gulliver’s travels.
There are other poets than Milton and Swift in the book, and you do not have to read about them all if you are unfamiliar with them or their works because that would go against Johnson’s purpose of the writing. Or you can read the book as an admirer of Johnson’s signatory witty and erudite writings from which you can learn a lot about his subjects and himself. The book serves as an eighteenth-century intriguing exclusive close-up documentary. It is about celebrity poets whom someone like Johnson, who was something of Roger Ebert in the criticism of the art of literature, could unpick and reconstruct as they might have been sans the mindless blinded paeans to their works without even being read. Undoubtedly, Johnson’s views on the poets have been and will be subject to criticism too, but his writings piled with a bonfire of splendidly sparkling expressions and apposite vocabulary drawn on his natural faculty of mind are nonetheless worthwhile to spend your time reading.
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Agony and Ecstasy
The Castle West of the Moon has two marble sculptures:
One is Ecstasy of Saint Teresa and the other Laocoon,
The works of Art in the image of Perfect Form
As though the makers of such Art had seen it in a dream;The divine ecstasy swept chaste Teresa in fiery passion
Tearing a thin veil of hidden desire beneath a cloak of faith
As Cupid’s Arrow of Desire thrust her heart in and out
And teased her with a recalcitrant paroxysm of ecstasy;
The eyes half-cast to the exhilaration of flowing streams
Of wanting, asking, giving, wanting it all in growing rapture
As the lips opened to the truth of the sensation she had denied.
How incredible Teresa’s devotion to God was wreathed in glory!Whereby Laocoon, the Trojan priest of Neptune, stood in agony
Frozen in marble ice as the Serpents coiling his ribs and thighs
Towering in their divine glory that the gods bestowed upon the beasts
And his two young sons coming to aide in filial haste in pitiful vain
Watched their righteous father perished in punishment for the truth
Against his audacious enemies for Helen treading upon his beloved Troy.
Twice round their bodies the Serpents’ long and winding volumes rolled,
Twice round their breaths the Serpents’ insidious and portent venoms gushed,
The Father and Sons dissolved into one great monument of struggles for life
As the Serpents wreathed them with their mighty power in triumph.The Queen of the Castle looked at the marvelous wonders of Art
In a surge of indomitable compassion for Laocoon and his Sons
For the painful death was beyond the reason of justice and sense
Even though it mattered gods, and gods and God were selfish always,
Whereby Teresa’s Ecstasy was deliciously dreamy in a sweet delirium
Glistening like dewdrops reflecting a rainbow on the gossamer cobweb. -
shingle shore
North Wind, blow your aspen leave once more
And tell me if it reaches the shingle shore
Where life is replete with its pristine nature:
Where the sea kale copes with the sea winds
Rising to a ridge of a crest, valorous and bounteous
True blue to the whimsical temper of sea love;
Where the yellow horned poppy blooms in the sea mists
Standing on a cliff, facing seaward, toward the horizons
Skybound, spellbound, fluttering the golden petals ever –
And if you see the brown hare hopping around the shore,
Tell me the castle east of the sun west of the moon is there.
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panic
The journey into the night is long
And the heart of a traveler’s beating
When the sound of pen flute fills
The wide-open field with thrills
Of the entranced temptation
That nymphs and shepherds fall
And lose their hours in pleasure






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