M.J. Harper and others at the lively and interesting site Applied-Epistemology.com are more than a little suspicious that Beowulf, and with it most if not all of the texts written in Anglo-Saxon (“Old English”), are forgeries created in the 16th century. It’s a really interesting argument. The Tudor period was a time of incredible cultural flowering and it was a time when the newly conscious nations of Europe, including England, were hungry for documents establishing their ancient heritage and, thus, legitimacy. Every nation wanted its Homer. The trade in forged religious relics had died with the Reformation, but a vigorous trade in national and literary relics took its place, and it is likely that the libraries of the gentry, whence the contents of the emptied-out monasteries landed, would also have been full of fabrications — many of them created by out-of-work former monks and scribes.

The Beowulf manuscript in the British Library is the sole source for the supposed Dark-Age story that everyone reads in English Lit, and its provenance can only be dated with any surety to right around 1700, the first time it actually is mentioned as part of the Cotton Library collection. The fire-damaged manuscript however bears the signature of a well-connected 16th-century Anglo-Saxonist Laurence Lowell, and is generally assumed to have passed through his hands sometime in the mid-1500s. If Lowell didn’t actually have a hand in creating the document, he may have acquired it via his employer, Sir William Cecil, when Lowell worked in his household tutoring Cecil’s ward, the young Edward de Vere (the later-famous Earl of Oxford, who in my view is the best candidate for the real authorship of Shakespeare’s plays).

Not unconnected to certain players in the story of the Beowulf forgery (if it is that) was the Anglican Archbishop of Armagh, also known as Bishop Ussher. He knew Cotton and used his library for his own research, and he also famously dated the creation of the world to 4004 BC, providing fuel for centuries of Creationist absurdity about the young age of the world. He’s the one who said that fossils were put in the rock to test our faith. It is really in the sphere of literature and history that we ought to be “creationists.” Documents may well be younger than they seem, essentially cultural fossils placed in the rock, made new to look old. More and more, despite initial misgivings, I am excited by the possibility that Beowulf is a far younger creation than anybody ever realized.

One of the reasons I always loved Beowulf and tried to get friends to actually read it is that aspects of it feel so weirdly modern. It has such wonderful aspects of sci-fi horror, for example: a resentful outcast monster lurking outside the light of the cheerful halls, preying on people at night, part of a race of creatures who have acid for blood. There’s a battle at the bottom of a lake. How cool is that? It doesn’t exactly feel like mythology, but like a novel. And then there’s the final dark episode with the dragon, which is totally classic. It’s a really dark and cool story, full of twists and turns and beautiful imagery of a misty, ancient Northern kingdom. This is why, despite Woody Allen’s quip that you should never take a class where they make you read Beowulf, readers are often drawn to the story and keep trying to make (invariably terrible) film versions of it.

The “acid for blood” thing has always stood out in my mind as particularly anachronistic for a story supposedly written down somewhere on either side of the year 1,000 and based on older oral tradition. Consider how vividly the poet describes it (this is from Seamus Heaney’s translation):

Meanwhile the sword
began to wilt into gory icicles
to slather and thaw. It was a wonderful thing,
the way it all melted as ice melts …
its blade had melted
and the scrollwork on it burned, so scalding was the blood
of the poisonous fiend who had perished there.

Alien, anyone? I’m not a chemist, but this sounds like a description of nitric or sulfuric acid’s affect on iron. Those acids were discovered by the Arab alchemist Geber in the 8th century, though were not industrially produced and widely used in Britain until, well, the 16th century. I have a hard time imagining a Dark-Age Anglo-Saxon scop (poet) or even a 10th or 11th century scribe writing such a description. What kind of experience would someone in Britain at that time have with highly corrosive acids? I don’t think a writer necessarily needs to have seen or heard about a thing to be able to imagine it, but this is an awfully singular image that strikes me as out of place before the Renaissance. (I’d welcome hearing a dissenting view on that from someone more acquainted with the history of chemistry/industry.)

Even more anachronistic, to my mind, is the covert theme of Beowulf, which is melancholia. I’ve always felt that the Beowulf-poet was not just some bard reciting one of the favorite legends of his people, but an original creator of a poetic work about the sickness of his own soul. The monster that terrorizes the previously cheerful hall of Heorot reads like a model of clinical depression: He is an exile, condemned to lurk beyond the reach of the light spilling from the hall of men, forced to listen in bitterness to the sound of their harps, the clink of cups, and their laughter. Unable to join them because of his original guilt (he is one of the “sons of Cain”), he lives instead with his mother at the bottom of a murky, monster-filled lake.

Anyone who has suffered depression would recognize these images and identify with Grendel’s alienation from the cheerful happy people, the stocky, manly Beowulves of this world (and perhaps would even identify with the Freudian/Hitchcockian theme of unresolved bitter and dependent feelings toward a similarly alienated mother). Grendel is a brilliant portrait of the bitter self-exile of the depressed person. By contrast, Beowulf himself is nothing more than a comic-book caricature, a frat guy cum uber-hero. In describing this contrast between the noble hall of the cheerful heroes and the alienation of the monster, the Beowulf poet was describing his own painful alienation from his fellows. The poem was a poetic expression of that melancholy loneliness.

People have always experienced introverted sadness, but just as “clinical depression” is a cultural construct of our age, melancholia was a cultural construct of the Renaissance. It was in the 15th Century that this kind of socially alienated introversion began to be romanticized and explored as an aspect of genius by writers and philosophers and playwrights. To my knowledge, you don’t get sensitive, sympathetic portrayals of melancholics before this period; and while Grendel is not exactly a sympathetic portrayal, there is definitely something sad about him and his life. It is hard not to feel his pain as he runs off, sans arm, to die at home with his mother. It is this sympathetic aspect of his character that makes Grendel seem so modern, and so inviting to modern reimagining by writers like John Gardner.

There is the whole notion that J.R.R. Tolkien, entranced by the mysteries of Beowulf and its ancient idiom, wrote The Lord of the Rings to flesh out the ancient mythological world of the Anglo Saxons and, in the process, create a uniquely English myth. What if he wasn’t original? What if, in fact, that’s what the original 16th-century writer of Beowulf was himself doing? I’m reminded of the quote by Hegel: The mysteries of the Egyptians were mysteries for the Egyptians themselves. There is an occult recursion in history, if you look carefully, and Tolkien’s relation to Beowulf seems like an example of that process.

Some of the pleasure of the “Beowulf-as-forgery” idea is admittedly simply the thrill of conspiracy, an unsolved mystery. (Finding out the truth will require carbon-dating the manuscript–perhaps after Harper and his friends gain sufficient legitimacy for their theory that the British Library could be persuaded to perform the necessary tests on this British national treasure.) But I also find that it actually adds to my pleasure in the text to read it through the lens of its being a possible product of the age of Shakespeare or Milton. I actually think it adds to the genius of the work to see its mysteries as being part of an atmosphere of pastness created imaginatively by a Renaissance writer, rather than simply a more or less faithful recording of a Dark Age legend.

I never intended this blog to be about food and nutrition, but somehow it’s around this that I feel the strongest urge to share my thoughts. Lately on two occasions I have gotten into fierce arguments (under the influence of alcohol, admittedly) with people reciting the standard dietary philosophy of “eat low-calorie, low-fat, low red meat, etc.” I try to indulge them nicely and then explain how science is now learning that this health dogma is false, etc., and try to educate them that they should only be avoiding refined carbohydrates. But — shockingly! – they stick to their guns and get really emotional. And then I get emotional, and then somewhere along the line I pass out from the alcohol (a refined carbohydrate).

I’m really interested in how passionate people get about food — whatever their choices, whatever their basis for their choices. There’s no more fundamental existential choice in our lives than our eating habits, I’m discovering — it really is true that we are what we eat. One’s dietary philosophy really is like one’s religion, and I think in this day and age not talking about diet should be right up there with not talking about God and not talking about politics as rules for polite conversation in mixed company.

Here it is, the recipe you’ve been waiting for.

Lightly brown 1 finely chopped shallot in butter, then add one finely chopped garlic clove and saute a minute or two longer (without letting the garlic brown). At the secret, esoteric moment, add to your saucier pan about 3/4 C dry white wine, turn the heat up, and let the wine reduce. Meanwhile, chop up a box of mushrooms finely and saute them in butter in a separate pan, with some salt to help draw out the moisture. You’re going to want to reduce the mushrooms to delicious perfection, to add to the sauce at the very end.

When the wine has reduced nearly all the way (1/2 cm?), reduce the heat to low and stir 2 rounded tsp of Better-than-Bouillon chicken paste into the remaining wine and spoon in 1/2 can of creme fraiche. Use a rubber spatula to scrape the golden wine residue from the sides of the pan into the deliciously unfolding sauce. Slowly bring this to a simmer, while with your other hand you continue reducing the mushrooms to their delicious essence.

At about this point, stick 4 or 5 chicken thighs in the broiler (or on a grill, if you prefer). As the sauce is getting hot, chop a handful of curly parsley and either add it to the sauce or, if you want to be fancy, save it to sprinkle over the top of everything when you serve it. It pleases me to allow you certain freedoms, so this part is up to you.

When the mushrooms are reduced to little brown buttery wonderfulness, add them to the sauce and stir it together. You can take the sauce off the heat now. In the pan with the mushroom essence on the bottom, stir fry some rappini or asparagus, in a little olive oil and with a chopped garlic clove, to accompany the chicken. (The veggies will mingle on your plate with the extra sauce, which you will soon find is to die for.)

Don’t overcook the chicken! Ladle the mushroom cream sauce over the chicken, once it is on the plates, accompany it with the vegetables (and garnish with parsley, if you chose that path), and you’re done.

The story of Hercules’ theft of the apples in the Garden of the Hesperides necessarily also reminds us of the story, even more commonly alluded to by alchemical writers, of Jason and the golden fleece. This story is commonly considered to be one of the most explicit mythological expressions of the alchemical process and objective. I will only briefly summarize it: Hermes had sent a winged ram, Chrysomallus, to rescue Phrixus and Helle from their wicked stepmother. Helle fell into the sea and was drowned, but Phrixus made it safely to Colchis, and in thanks sacrificed the ram to Zeus. He gave the fleece of the ram to the king, Aeetes, who put it under a dragon’s guard in a garden sacred to the god Ares (Mars). Later, the king’s daughter, the famous Medea, using divine magic, helped Jason and his crew of 50 Argonauts slay the dragon and steal the fleece. This last woolly substance is taken by all the great authors to symbolize the culmination of the Great Work.

The astrological significance of Ares is important. Many writers emphasize that the work must begin under the sign of Aries—astrologically, the Spring—and standing also for the planet Mars and the metal it rules, iron. And there are other things that rams and their mates symbolize—consider them all carefully. The dragons that guard the golden fleece, as well as the golden apples of the Hesperides, reward consideration too. “Dragon” comes, as Fulcanelli reminds us, from the Greek word derkesthai meaning looking or glancing, or “eyes always open.” It is sometimes said that a dragon is awake while it is sleeping.

It is traditional to place lions, not dragons, as guardians of our courts and other edifices of the Law, and this practice descends from the ancient practice of using lion statues to guard temples. Horapollo, an ancient exegete of the esoteric glyphs of the Egyptians, explains why: The Egyptians believed that lions, like dragons, are awake when they are asleep, and asleep when they are awake. Consider then what dragons and lions may have to do with rams, let the relationship simmer in your mind, and you will be rewarded.

“Experience is not a matter of having actually swum the Hellespont, or danced with the dervishes, or slept in a doss-house. It is a matter of sensibility and intuition, of seeing and hearing the significant things, of paying attention at the right moments, of understanding and coordinating. Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him.” (Aldous Huxley)

In thinking about Maier’s Atalanta Fugiens, we should consider not just the story of the race of Hippomenes and Atalanta, but also how Venus obtained the golden apples in the first place.

Retrieving the golden apples from the Garden of the Hesperides, at the Western end of the earth, was one of the labors of Hercules. Hesperides comes from hesperios [fem. of Gr. hesperis, meaning ‘of the evening’ or ‘western’]. Hesperis is Venus in its appearance as the Evening Star. (Hesta, in Greek, became the Roman deity Vesta, from which we also get vesper, meaning evening, and vespers, the sixth of the seven canonical hours and the prayers said in the early evening–but I digress.) The garden was guarded over by nymphs (the Hesperides themselves) and by a dragon, Ladon. Dragons are omnipresent in our Art. This one, Ladon, connects to latona, mother of Apollo and Diana and cabalistically equivalent to latten or brass. This is the theme of emblem XI: “Whiten Latona and Burn Your Books.” It should also be noted, for what it may be worth, that Latona also resembles Latin, the literary language of the ancient world and the language in which most European alchemical texts (including this one) were penned.

If we divide the name of the garden differently, we arrive at hes+perides: hes- may remind us of haes, L. haeserare, “to hold fast” (as in hesitate). And perides may relate to pyrite—i.e., fool’s gold, a form of iron. Could it be that the “golden apples” aren’t true gold, but rather some false gold merely meant to capture Atalanta’s desire? The English word “fool” actually has an alchemical origin, by the way: It comes from the Latin word follis, which means “bellows.” The very definition of a misguided alchemist was a “puffer,” someone who wasted his life with his bellows, stoking a fire, slavishly, literal-(letter-al)-mindedly, following the instructions in his books.

Iron pyrite, or Iron sulfide, takes a metallic crystalline form, and was used in firearms of the period Maier was writing because it sparks when struck against a flint. Pyrite was also sometimes used to mean flint because it was believed that the fire was inside of this stone. Flint had other uses near to the heart of our Art, however: A ‘touchstone’ is a hard piece of flint used to test the purity of gold or silver. The streak left by the metal when scratched across its surface was compared with that of a standard alloy. The origins of flint are mythologically attributed to Mercury, and can also be found in Ovid. The story makes an irresistible digression:

While he was thinking only of his love, and comforting himself with his reedpipes, his cattle, unguarded, so the story goes, strayed into the fields of Pylos. There Maia’s son, Mercury, espied them, and by his cunning drove them off and hid them in the woods. No one had noticed the theft, except one old man, well-known in the neighborhood, whom everyone called Battus. His duty was to patrol the glades and grassy meadows of wealthy Neleus, keeping watch over his herds of pedigree mares. Mercury was afraid of Battus, and so he led him aside and said coaxingly: ‘Whoever you are, my friend, if anyone should happen to ask for these herds, say that you haven’t seen them. Here is a sleek cow, as a reward for doing me this favour.’ The other took the cow he gave him, and replied: ‘Go on your way, you are quite safe.’—and pointing to a stone, he added: ‘Sooner will that stone tell of your theft than I.’ Jove’s son pretended to depart; but later he returned in a different guise, and spoke in a different voice. ‘Herdsman,’ he said, ‘if you have seen any cattle passing this way, help me, and do not be party to a theft by keeping silent. In return you will have a bull and its mate for yourself.’ Now when the reward was doubled, the old man was tempted. ‘You will find them at the bottom of those hills’—and in fact, that was where they were. Mercury laughed. ‘You rogue,’ he said. ‘You would betray me to my face? Actually betray me to myself?’ and he turned the faithless heart to hard flint, the stone which even today is called ‘touchstone.’ The innocent rock still bears the stigma of that shameful deed of long ago.

So, there is perides and pur … and if you are at all getting the hang of cabala certain other possibilities will no doubt have occurred to you. But file those away in the back of your mind and return your attention to me, your teacher and guide, for one more minute, because I want to impart to you one last observation. It may be worth noting that Hesperides sounds very much like experiment, the very method of the Art we are considering. Most dictionaries will assert that experiment comes from L. experire, “to try or test”—of which we may take the touchstone as a model—but the real root will be obvious even to a schoolchild: Ex-, as anybody knows, means “from,” and peri means “near” or “around.” The same two roots form the basis of experience.

Here it is useful to remember what every alchemical writer says about the First Matter chosen for the subsequent transformation into the Philosopher’s Stone: It is something that is all around us, close at hand, and thus cheap, or even despised by the majority of people.

The loveliest alchemical text of the whole 17th Century is Atalanta Fugiens, literally “Atalanta Fleeing,” by Michael Maier. The title refers to the story, told by Ovid, about the race between the beautiful fleet-footed virgin Atalanta and her would-be suitor Hippomenes. The frontispiece of the book depicts various scenes from this story, and the 50 emblems and commentaries in the book all relate in various ways to the Hermetic themes it symbolizes. It seems to me that it might be helpful to you, reading at home and no doubt bewildered by the baroque symbolism of Maier’s masterpiece, for me to initiate you into certain of its themes.

The main story is this: Atalanta, the fastest in the land, didn’t want to marry but was pressured to do so by her father. She agreed to a race with her suitors—whoever could beat her would win her hand, but whoever didn’t would die. To help him win the prize, Venus provided Hippomenes with three golden apples. During the race, he threw down the apples one by one, and each time Atalanta was distracted enough by them, bending to pick each one up, that he was able to surge ahead and crossed the finish line first. He thus won the race and married his prize.

On the surface, it is a nice story to tell children, but on another level much of the alchemical method is symbolically expressed or alluded to by its imagery. Most crucially, there is the fundamental dualism between fast and slow, or volatile and fixed. This opposition is central to Alchemy and to Hermetic philosophy generally, and Maier regarded it as so important that he made it central to his own (self-designed) coat of arms: An eagle attempts to fly upward but is kept from doing so by a crawling toad to which it is chained. (Meditate on that chain, and you can go far in our Art. I will say no more about this.)

Atalanta herself obviously indicates something fast and quick (like quicksilver or vulgar mercury) and also elusive—something that flees and so must, via some operation involving real or figurative gold, be detained or slowed. This problem, fixing the volatile, necessarily calls to mind the question of Time. All the great writers are concerned with Time, timing, and different qualities of unfolding. All writers emphasize, for example, the great care and patience to be taken in the hermetic work. Patience implies slowness, sluggishness, detaining, and waiting. Why should ‘great care and patience’ be part of the hermetic picture at all? Such a requirement, which seems at first most obvious and unworthy of consideration, because it strikes us as so familiar and universal—found in every initiatory tradition, every philosophical tradition—is actually a very mysterious point. The nature of the ‘great care and patience’ should be reflected on, thought about, because such thought may help reveal the identity of the matter we are concerned with.

Our subject, without the help of “Hermetic patience” (quite different from vulgar patience), could literally flee our grasp. What are other things besides Time that behave like Atalanta, and that it would be worthwhile to detain or fix? What on earth requires such great care and patience, subordinating ourselves or submitting ourselves to it? All the great philosophers have warned of this difficulty of beginning the work: the beginning requires knowing the identity of the first matter, the despised/overlooked substance upon which all subsequent transformations are performed.

It is also apparent that this allegory concerns the role of gold in the alchemical work, but not in the way we might expect. All the great writers agree that gold is not simply an end product of the work but is also a necessary ingredient, as something that needs to be given to Mercury in order to fix it or hold it in place. Yet we must be cautious, and not merely think of the apples as common gold. Common (or “vulgar”) gold is often disparaged by alchemical writers. Fulcanelli, for example, called gold the gaudy slut of metals.

Fulcanelli seduced generations of would-be adepts with the etymological games so beloved of the French, which he called cabala. Fulcanelli’s cabala derived, he said, not from the Jewish Kabbalah but from the similar-sounding Latin word caballus, for “horse,” sharing thereby a close connection with the science and art of chivalry. I am not above imitating Fulcanelli’s amusing method, if it will shed some light on Maier’s work.

How better than to consider the name of the ancient hero whom our legend concerns. On one level it can be linked to hip-, a decline or depression or throwing down, plus pom, apple or fruit. But Fulcanelli would go on to insist that there is no contradiction to say that the word may yet be parsed a second way: Hippomenes contains the prefix hippo, the Greek word for “horse,” plus menes, mens, or “mind.”

But there is something else again: Hippomenes is closely similar to hypomnema, a Greek word that meant “note” or “reminder”—a supporter or foundation (hypo-) of memory (mnema). Consider memory, then, and reflect on why (and how) the gifts of Venus may be an aid to it, in fixing the volatile mercury. In this connection, and with just a little cleverness, you might just find the meaning of Emblem VI: “Sow your gold in the white foliate earth.”

But I have already written too much.