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From New Dawn 197 (Mar-Apr 2023)

In the Western media, the Russian philosopher and political analyst Alexander Dugin has been labelled variously as a modern Rasputin, a neo-fascist, a reactionary nationalist, an eminence grise of Putin’s Russia and much else. In order to understand where Dugin is coming from, one has to see him in the light of the time-honoured Russian tradition of the starets, the wise elder, a figure who repeatedly appears in Russian history and literature.

In the run-up to elections for the Russian State Duma (parliament) in 1996, one of the contending parties was the relatively new National Bolshevik Party (NBP), whose emblem was a double-headed eagle clutching a wreath enclosing a hammer and sickle and bearing on its breast an image of Saint Michael spearing a dragon – a combination of symbols that, like the party itself, was calculated to defy all the usual political pigeon-holes.

In one St. Petersburg constituency, a rock concert was organised to support the NBP candidate and at the same time to celebrate the memory of the English magus Aleister Crowley. The star performer was Sergei Kuryokhin (1954–1996), an avant-garde composer and virtuoso pianist. The candidate for the Duma was a young man from Moscow named Alexander Dugin (born 1962), who had been active in the Soviet counter-culture and then became a polemical journalist, publisher and political thinker and activist, achieving fame for his controversial writings on geopolitics. A memorable part of the proceedings was when a moment of silence was observed in honour of Crowley’s memory, after which Dugin read a passage from Crowley’s Book of the Law. Dugin won less than one per cent of the vote in the ballot, and he withdrew from the NBP two years later.

Evidently, Crowley’s concept of magic appealed to Dugin and Kuryokhin because in the previous year they had issued a remarkable joint declaration entitled Manifesto of the New Magi, divided into 22 numbered paragraphs – 22 being the number of letters in the Hebrew alphabet and of the Tarot trumps. The manifesto called for a new impulse to overcome the fatigue and degeneracy that had overtaken culture and politics in the modern world. The manifesto declared:

“Magic is not events, things and objects, but causes; magic does not simply describe but actively operates. Magic precedes art and politics. Art and politics became autonomous only upon being detached from their magical source. This source has not disappeared but merely slipped away to the periphery from where it exerts indirect influence. Secret societies, lodges and orders have governed history and inspired artists.… Indirect influence has not been sufficient as politics and art forgot the necessity of constantly appealing to magic. Only the direct, total replacement of art and politics with MAGIC can save the situation.”¹

Regardless of the somewhat messianic tone of the manifesto, the authors bring out an important point, namely that the way to influence and motivate large numbers of people is not through logic and reason but through symbols, rituals, drama, archetypes and mythical motifs – in other words through what many would call magic.

Russian Egregores

According to the 19^th-century French occultist Eliphas Lévi, magic works through what he called the “astral light,” an invisible, subtle field or fluid that connects all things and can be manipulated by the magician to affect people’s thoughts and behaviour and bring about changes in the world. The concept is similar to akasha in traditional Indian thought as well as to Franz Anton Mesmer’s magnetic fluid, and to what Karl von Reichenbach termed the odic force. While the work of Mesmer and Reichenbach was rejected by the mainstream science of their time, certain of their findings have since gained wide acceptance. For example, the phenomenon of hypnotic trance is now generally recognised by the medical profession as an identifiable state that can be induced both in individuals and in groups, although the exact mechanism by which this works is still a matter of dispute. Several scientists, such as the Russian biologist Alexander Gurwitsch (1874–1954), the German biophysicist Fritz-Albert Popp (1938–2018) and the English biologist Rupert Sheldrake (born 1942), have opened up what has come to be termed a field-based approach, arguing that objects in the physical world, both animate and inanimate, possess fields of energy that give all objects their properties and interact with other energy fields. These interacting energy fields are surely consistent with the notion of an all-pervading etheric fluid, whether termed akasha, the astral light or the od.

I suggest that in this field – call it what you will – are stored the perennial mythical motifs, archetypes and egregores, or collective thought-forms, of a culture. I also suggest that in Russia the veil between this field and the ordinary, everyday world is unusually thin, with the result that these egregores are more vividly present to the Russian mind than they are in most other cultures. In my book Occult Russia, I have identified a number of these egregores, including the notion of Holy Russia, the legend of the faraway Never-Never Land, the figure of the rustic sage and that of the Woman Clothed with the Sun, as described in Revelation. To these I would add another typically Russian figure, that of the starets. In one sense, the word simply means “elder,” but used in the religious context, it means a revered sage, prophet, holy man and often a wandering pilgrim and preacher. Can we consider Alexander Dugin as exemplifying this tradition, and to what extent?

Dugin as a Starets

The starets is often, but not necessarily, a priest or monk attached to a monastery or religious community. Typically these individuals possess great charisma and attract large numbers of people seeking healing, solace, advice for their problems or forecasts for their future. The figure of the starets overlaps somewhat with the rustic sage and also with the holy fool (yurodiviy in Russian), a man or woman who adopts an apparently crazy manner of living and often blatantly ignores conventions but is intensely devout and has miraculous powers of healing and prophecy. Such a one was the 16^th-century Saint Basil, who went about naked even in the coldest of weather. These holy fools were also truth-speakers who in certain ways fulfilled the function of the court jester. They were not afraid to speak unpalatable truths, even to a monarch.

We frequently encounter the starets in the annals of Russian history and the pages of literature. One well-known example from history is Grigorii Rasputin (1869–1916). A whirlwind of a man, part pious visionary, part healer and prophet, part drunkard and reprobate, he is mainly remembered for the way in which he gained the confidence of the royal family, especially the Tsarina Alexandra, on account of his skill in treating the young Tsarevich Alexis, who suffered from haemophilia. On the eve of the revolution, he was murdered by a group of aristocrats, worried by what they saw as his dangerous influence at the court.

Dugin has often been compared to Rasputin, but in fact there is little similarity between them apart from a high degree of charisma. Rasputin was from a peasant family in Siberia and remained illiterate until early adulthood. He was a man of religious fire and piety but not an intellectual. Dugin, by contrast, is a philosopher and a man of immense erudition who comes from a privileged family of the Soviet elite. He is perhaps more readily comparable to another starets, Grigorii Skoworoda (1722–1794), who was born into a Cossack family in a region of the Ukraine that was then part of the Russian empire. Known as the “Russian Socrates,” he was a polymath, philosopher, theologian, composer and much else. After a short teaching career, he became a kind of itinerant sage in the starets tradition.²

In many cases, a person will become a starets after passing through a wild phase in the early years of their life. This was certainly true of the writer Tolstoy, who became a sort of rustic starets in his old age. It is also true of Dugin, who in the 1970s was a member of the Iuzhinsky circle in Moscow, a group of rebellious young intellectuals who went out of their way to defy convention. After perestroika, he explored a variety of different political movements, from the ultra-nationalist Pamyat to the National Bolsheviks. His spiritual path eventually led him to fully embrace the Orthodox religion in the form practised by the Old Believers, a sect that broke away from the main Orthodox Church in the 17^th century over doctrinal issues. He also pursued a varied education, including a period of study by correspondence, obtaining a doctorate in sociology. Subsequently, he held a professorship for a time at Moscow State University. By then he had become a celebrated figure, a scholar who could speak with authority on philosophy, politics, culture and religion, and a charismatic public speaker. He had become, in a word, a starets.

To become a starets is to step into a role that has all the force of the corresponding egregore and centuries of tradition behind it. The starets plays partly according to a collectively prepared scenario, but at the same time brings his own particular style and script to the role. Among the various types of starets, two categories stand out: those who care for the souls of individuals and those who address a large audience and proclaim a grand vision. Dugin belongs to the latter group.

He is unusually many-faceted and multi-lingual. One moment he is discussing Nietzsche, post-modernism or the traditionalism of René Guénon, the next he is talking about mythology, geopolitics or the Eurasian movement. He is also equally at home in an academic setting, in a television studio or on the platform at a political gathering. He can talk in the thoughtful, measured tones of a university professor or hold forth like a fiery Old Testament prophet. Highly eloquent, he can hold an audience spellbound. He is the voice of tradition, patriotism, Orthodox piety, profoundly held values and the time-honoured Russian way as opposed to what he sees as the decadent ways of the West.

This is not the place to go into his ideas in detail – his concept of an emerging Eurasian realm, his notion of a perennial conflict between the land powers and sea powers of the world, and his plea for a fourth political theory to replace communism, fascism and liberal democracy. His words are often disquieting, and one may or may not agree with them, yet they can open up fascinating horizons, as when he talks about his concept of “noomachia” (the battle of minds). Here he amends Nietzsche’s dichotomy between Apollo and Dionysus by adding a third deity, namely the goddess Cybele. In a monumental series of some 27 volumes, he explores how these three types of logos, as he calls them, interact in various ways from one culture to another and can give rise to profound cultural differences.

Dugin laments the fact that the wisdom of old age is no longer revered as it used to be. In an interview in 2011, he said:

“In a traditional society an older person was considered to be a role model and a normative figure. Human life was seen to develop from an unreasoning and witless childhood through a foolish and not very focused youth to adulthood and, finally, to the ideal of a fully-fledged person, an elder… But a person was called an elder not so much according to their age, but rather according to their spiritual maturity. Everyone aspired to become an elder. Old age was a state of perfection – one grew towards consciousness, towards the spirit. In our time, we see a radical reversal of this. The role model for society is a young person… a teenager… Infantilism, juvenility, adolescence have become the social norm.”

Dugin paints a bleak picture of a future in which the elderly will have lost all social status and there will be no place for a noble and worthy old age, whether religious, spiritual, or simply wise. “As we modernise, we humiliate and trample the old people more and more. The future takes the place of the past, and the past is scrapped.”³

In a society that ceases to value old age, what is to become of the starets? Despite Dugin’s pessimism the tradition of the starets does not seem likely to disappear any time soon.

One famous example from the cinema screen is the character of the monk Anatoly in the film Island, released in 2006. Anatoly is both a starets and a fool for Christ, who drives his fellow monks to despair through his strange behaviour, but in the end is recognised by them as a true holy man. The part of Anatoly was played by the former rock singer Pyotr Mamonov (1951–2021), who converted to Orthodoxy and became a kind of starets himself. His performance, which has been highly praised by Dugin, had an intensity that could only have been achieved by someone who closely identified with the role. It is a very Russian portrayal of a very Russian phenomenon that is still alive and well, as I believe Dugin himself demonstrates.

The spiritual currents and esoteric traditions of Russia are explored in Christopher McIntosh’s new book Occult Russia: Pagan, Esoteric, and Mystical Traditions, available from Inner Traditions.

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Footnotes

1. Dugin, Alexander, and Sergei Kuryokhin, “Manifesto of the New Magi” in New Dawn Special Issue Vol. 15, No. 3 (2021), 70-71.

2. See Michael Evdokimov, Russische Pilger. Salzburg: Otto Müller Verlag, 1990, 53-56.

3. The text of the interview is posted on vz.ru/opinions/2011/7/21/508970.html, accessed 20 December, 2022.

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From New Dawn 197 (Mar-Apr 2023)

The world is a silent poem waiting for my mind to render up its promise.
– James Cowan .

The author, poet, and traveller James Cowan was in pursuit of the metaphysical vision for most of his life. He even attempted to define a new literary genre with it – one that he called metaphysical realism. In his own words, he had been grappling with the concept of metaphysical realism for more than fifty years.

He recognised that the ordinary realist perspective of the world had served us well; but that it had also proved to be one of limitation. James felt that it had ultimately diminished the importance of the imagination. The modern age was seen to be dominated by action and the outward gaze.

How the mind works inwardly through the intellect – to contemplate how and why things should be done – was, according to James, being neglected and superseded by the imminently practical. The development of the mind’s inner powers began to mean less and less to modern humanity.

James wrote, “I had to find a way whereby my creative intellect might acquire space in which to operate. I soon understood that my thought needed to contemplate forms that were timeless if I were ever to bring into fruition a more robust form of fictive expression.”¹ Words had to be “not simply comprehensible markings on a page” but “photons capable of irradiating the mind of a reader…”²

James felt that he needed a way to access a different form of consciousness. In his own words, he felt he was left with no choice:

I was left with no choice but to find another way of dealing with time in the context of creative fiction. It was then that I made the decision to return to a period in social history when time did not exist as a framework for human existence. I journeyed into Central and northern Australia to begin my encounter with elderly Aboriginal tribesmen in order to understand how they viewed time in the context of their Dreaming narratives.³

This was how James Cowan began his adventures into the Aboriginal landscapes of the Dreaming. James began to learn from the Aboriginal Elders how myth could be used as a vehicle for metaphysical expression.

Through his Dreaming journeys in the desert, the raw young artist was shown how landscape and language worked in tandem. Words were “more than cerebral” – they also contained the residue of an endlessness that had become embedded into the physical artefacts of our human realm.

James Cowan began to read classic tales as that of Gilgamesh, the Arthurian legends, and early Coptic hagiographies of desert anchorites – realms that were inhabited by the miraculous. The idea was to seek out examples of a timeless construct where the very best of human nature could find experiences to nurture it.

James spent several years living, travelling, and learning from the Aboriginal culture. This culminated in several well-received books, including Letters from a Wild State: An Aboriginal Perspective (1991), The Element of the Aborigine Tradition (1992); Myths of the Dreaming: Interpreting Aboriginal Legends (1994); and Two Men Dreaming: A Memoir, A Journey (1995).

In the 1990s, James spent two years living in Balgo Hills, a remote Aboriginal settlement in the Tanami Desert where he had set up a cultural institute to promote and sell the work of Aboriginal painters.⁴ James considered the Aboriginal artists of the Balgo Hills to be among the most innovative painters working in Central and Western Australia.

When I asked him why he had chosen to go from the life of a writer to that of an art coordinator, I received an unexpected reply. He told me he had wanted to pay back his debt to the Aboriginal community. What debt? I asked. They had given me their stories, he had said. When an Aboriginal Elder shares with you their story, they are giving something from their community, and they too incur a debt. Their stories are community possessions, their treasures. You cannot treat them lightly. They gave me great gifts over the years, and this debt I feel I must pay back. And I am doing this by promoting their work to the world. It is the least they deserve.

It was a humbling reply. And it was indicative of how James viewed the world. It was not a solid place, peopled by physical objects and remnants. It was a living mythos. And it ran on the power of stories.

During the 1990s James also went to visit the village elders and shamans in the longhouses of Borneo. He saw how these tribes ‘stored’ narratives through the random juxtaposition of storyboards on the floor of their longhouse. These storyboards were “like wafers: on them were a rudimentary script made up of markings.”

Rather than being confined to the rigor of sacred texts, language could be placed in the category of uncertainty. The patterns that were found in nature transcended the literalness of words placed on paper, and myths could find a new dance of life to transmit their secrets.

James wrote up his experiences among the natives of northwestern Australia, Borneo, and the Torres Strait Islands in his book Messengers of the Gods: Tribal Elders Reveal the Ancient Wisdom of the Earth (1993).

To further polish his learning, James reread ancient and medieval texts, particularly those associated with the development of early philosophy and theology. He discovered that writers of these periods had developed a way of saying something by referring to what it is not (apophasis). James felt himself at home amongst the medieval writers, many of which stayed with him throughout his life. Writers such as Dionysius the Aeropagite (late 5^th–6^th c. CE), John Scotus Erigena (815–877), Ibn Masarra (883–931), and John of Ruusbroec (1293–1381).

True language, James felt, should be able to express itself not only in new and exceptional ways but also in a manner that the reader may not be accustomed to. He didn’t wish for thought to be subjected to the constraints of language; and in order to reconstitute a reality of a higher order, he first had to disrupt the current mode of expression. Language was seen as an incantation. This was the aim of James Cowan’s metaphysical realism – to tell a story within a story. And this meant it was necessary to dispense with the objective realism of storytelling.

In James’ writings, telling a good story alone was not good enough. Western materialism, he felt, had exhausted the notion of the unending linear narrative. It was necessary to investigate an inner dimension that is timeless, regardless of whether it goes against literary tradition. James was seeking to capture the essence of the inward event within the experiences of the human condition. And in doing so, he realised that his work may be regarded as subversive for it was willing to go against the grain of what is considered reality.

Yet James Cowan was not the first writer in history to expound metaphysical realism. According to James, metaphysical realism, as a creative method, was first acknowledged by Parmenides in the sixth-century BCE. He had written a philosophic poem, “Way of Truth,”which formulated the principles of logic that continue to govern our thought today. This poem profoundly influenced thinkers such as Socrates, and later Plato, because he paved the way for them to develop a system of logic that we now use.

James felt that Parmenides was the first to present the idea of the way, the path, as a new form of narrative; an idea later shared by Peter Kingsley.⁵ In Parmenides’ words:

A chariot bore me as far as my heart desired
Urging me upon the Way of the Goddess
That leads wise men from town to town.
On that Way I was hauled by trusty steeds
Hitched to a chariot, & driven by maidens.
Its axle glowed fiery red in their hubs, heated by
Spinning wheels at each end, both emitting sounds
Of a panpipe, while the Daughters of the Sun
Wishing to transport me into the light, tossed aside
Veils from their faces as we left Night’s abode.⁶

Such writing as given by Parmenides makes the reader aware that there is a way to rise to a certain state of being. And upon this path there is one thing of supreme importance: the human imagination. It is through the imagination that a person can break from the real to venture forth into the realm of the spirit.

James realised that this was the same technique used by Aboriginal Elders, and other natives such as the Iban people, that he had spent time amongst. It is a path that enables the listener/reader to enter into the world that exists within the underlying language. This was the realm of the divine utterance – the very essence of metaphysics. Writing, for James, was a pathway to reach into these ‘divine utterances’ in a bid to understand, and consequently to present, the revelations of transcendent experience through language. James was well aware that he would never fully master this technique. Yet he put his hand to the task.

In 1996 James Cowans’ A Mapmaker’s Dream was published to critical acclaim. I remember James laughing gently as he told me the tale of how his most widely read book came into publication. He said he had sent it to various publishers but none of them knew what to make of it. Saddled with an unusual book, just about every publisher preferred not to take the economic risk, so they put it aside. Except one.

The editor of Shambhala Publications finally gave James a call. He told James how they had read the book, enjoyed it, yet thought it was unmarketable. And so, like every other publisher, they had put the book aside. Yet, a strange thing happened. Each person at Shambhala who had read the book could not stop thinking about it. It would not leave their thoughts. It hung around in their heads, lingering like the vestiges of some peripheral dream. It would not let them go.

Finally, the editor knew the book had to be released. He was on the phone now with James, asking if he would sign their contract. “I’m going away in a couple of days on a journey,” James replied. “Maybe when I get back, I can look over the contract.” There was a pause on the other end of the phoneline. “Too late,” came the reply. “I’ll fly over to Australia tomorrow and you can sign the contract.” James was bemused. As good as his word, the editor at Shambhala Publications flew from America to Australia and handed the contract to James. He signed it, then went off on his trek.

James was not expecting the future success that A Mapmaker’s Dream would generate. The book, being ‘The Meditations of Fra Mauro, Cartographer to the Court of Venice’ (to give its full subtitle) explored a whole world across time and space, and realities that exist within other realities.

In my own PhD thesis, almost fifteen years before finally meeting James, I had quoted from A Mapmaker’s Dream as an opening citation to my chapter on hyper-complexity. I quoted:

“Every man who had ever lived became a contributor to the evolution of the earth, since his observations were a part of its growth. The world was thus a place entirely constructed from thought, ever changing, constantly renewing itself through the process of mankind’s pondering its reality for themselves… No continent or people have turned out to exist except in relation to themselves. Their geographic location has also proved to be deceptive. The inescapable conclusion is that the true location of the world, of its countries, mountains, rivers, and cities, happens to lie in the eye of the beholder.”⁷

A perfect reflection of our inter-connectivity as a global species: geographic location has “proved to be deceptive.” Our world – that is, our reality – is a place entirely constructed from thought. As such, it is ever changing, and constantly renewing itself. This is our world perfectly described. Everything within it, including ourselves, only exist in relation to one another. Everything thus lies within the eye of the beholder. We are the mapmakers, and we are each living through our dreams.

The story of the world is told more through the languages, thought, and beingness of its characters (us) rather than in the do-ing of the characters. And this was what James reflected in his writings; especially so in A Mapmaker’s Dream which was perhaps his own first full exposition of metaphysical realism. Commercially, it was a success. A success that James was not to repeat in his lifetime.

A Troubadour’s Testament (1998) followed from this.⁸ The book was another journey: a contemplation of love enacted both outwardly and through the inward gaze. “Solitude is a difficult encampment,” wrote James within its pages. “Its guy ropes grow rigid on frosty mornings.” James was exploring the soul as a solitary substance: “it wanders through space, a lonely at times disfigured star, torn this way and that as it struggles to maintain its course.” James felt compelled to pursue his metaphysical vision through the struggle of the human soul.

His next series of books turned away from fiction towards an outer and interior travelogue of how the human heart and soul endures and finds nourishment through the world: Journey to the Inner Mountain: In the Desert with St. Antony (2001);⁹ Francis: A Saint’s Way (2002); and Fleeing Herod: Through Egypt with the Holy Family (2013).

By this time, James had decamped and left Australia to live in Italy for several years, to absorb the culture, learn the language, and to research the life of Saint Francis. James’ vision was to explore the world through whispers rather than shouts. To probe into the phantasms of the human soul; to trace the movements of an ant’s foot across a black stone in the darkness of night.

According to James, the metaphysical vision is “a rare flower” – Novalis’s blue flower, perhaps? He respected the writings of Novalis, Friedrich Hölderlin, Victor Segalen, Borges, and later, W.G. Sebald. He saw all such writings as seeds that were seeking their cultivation through the reader. James’ own wish in his writings was to create a realm to allow the reader to change places with himself. The reader, he felt, should not be required to remain bound by the limits of his or her world perspective.

James lived the final months of his life as a literary meditation. The Book of Letters was the last completed full work from James Cowan. It was written during his final months, and he intended it to be his ultimate testimony and love letter to the sanctity of language. Of this book, he said:

It is a pure work, and goes to the heart of our time. We have distanced ourselves from the purity of language, hence the grave time in which we live. The Book of Letters is a cris de coeur for a return to the sanctity of words… my final attempt at genuine metaphysics of language.¹⁰

Still, the metaphysical gaze would not rest. James began working on a new composition in the final weeks of his life, which was left almost completed. Within the scarcity of life, James was more concerned with thoughts than with titles. James had no name for the final book he was composing: “The question I next asked myself was: what should I call it?”¹¹

And so, the book became the Liber sin Nomine (a book without name). It was James’ original intention to create a type of spirit-full collection, or sacred “tag-ends of my own thoughts.” In his final days he spoke of the book as an ongoing flow of thoughts and aphorisms. He often referred to it as “my Aphorism book.”

Yet it was more than a humble collection of “tag-ends.” The book became James’ own meditation on death and dying, and the relationship between a sacred life and the passing of that life. Within the book there are various places where James is acutely aware of the nature of his dying body – also, the rebellious behaviour of his body. He states that, “Let there be no mistake: my body has chosen to leave me! I did not give it permission to depart, at least not yet.”¹² Here are the words of a heart and mind, an active and alert consciousness, coming to terms with a disintegrating, and dissenting, body: “My body, now, is in violent disagreement with me. It simply refuses to concur with my pre-disposition towards health.”¹³

The book without name is a reflection on the act of dying. As a person who spent his whole life seeking to unravel the sacredness and mystery of life, James was now the participant in his own passing, and witnessing first-hand the departure from a world he so lovingly, and desperately, sought to embrace.

Ultimately, the writing of this final book was a tool that allowed him to realise his death consciously rather than through an unconscious submission. As within his own writings, James was preparing the mind for new vision, for an extension of consciousness. The metaphysical vision of James Cowan was forever attempting to “cut away dead flesh” in order to get at the essentiality of words and their meaning. And this was perhaps his route to self-revelation.

Readers are encouraged to read the latest posthumous release of the work of James Cowan, One: Parmenides and his Vision (Balgo Hills Publishing, 2022), available from online booksellers.

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Footnotes

1. ‘Metaphysical Realism in Modern Literature’ (unpublished)

2. Ibid.

3. Ibid.

4. Balgo: New Directions (Craftsman House, 1999)

5. Reality by Peter Kingsley (The Golden Sufi Center, 2003)

6. One. Parmenides and his Vision. Trans. by James Cowan (Balgo Hills Publishing, 2022).

7. A Mapmaker’s Dream (1996). In 1998 Cowan was awarded the prestigious Australian Literature Society’s Gold Medal for this novel.

8. A Troubadour’s Testament (Shambhala Publications, 1998)

9. Later republished as Desert Father (2006)

10. THE BOOK OF LETTERS: A meditation on the alphabet (Balgo Hills Publishing, 2020)

11. Liber sin Nomine (Balgo Hills Publishing, 2020)

12. Ibid.

13. Ibid.

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