1

European Weapons and Armour Boydell Press Ewart Oakeshott سال: 2000 زبان: english فائل: PDF, 20.12 MB 0 / 0

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After the Storm: Iraqi Wrecks and Fortifications Concord Publications Eric Micheletti سال: 1990 زبان: english فائل: PDF, 11.37 MB 0 / 0

A DICTIONARY OF SYMBOLS

A
DICTIONARY
OF SYMBOLS
Second Edition

by

J. E. CIRLOT
Translated from the Spanish by

JACK SAGE
Foreword by Herbert Read

LONDON

Translated from the Spanish
DICCIONARIO DE SIMBOLOS TRADICIONALES

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2001.
English translation
© Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd 1962
Second edition 1971
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known
or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.
ISBN 0–415–03649–6 (Print Edition)
ISBN 0-203-13375-7 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN 0-203-18928-0 (Glassbook Format)

CONTENTS

FOREWORD
INTRODUCTION
DICTIONARY

page ix
xi
1

BIBLIOGRAPHY
OF PRINCIPAL SOURCES

387

ADDITIONAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

389

INDEX

401

PLATES

Between pages 104 and 105
I. Roman sculpture incorporating symbolic motifs
II. Modesto Cuixart. Painting, 1958
III. Portal of the church of San Pablo del Campo, Barcelona
IV. Silver chalice, from Ardagh, Co. Longford
V. Tenth-century monument at Clonmacnois
VI. Chinese version of the cosmic dragon
VII. A renaissance relief, from the Doge’s Palace at Venice
VIII. Capitals, monastery of Santo Domingo de Silos
IX. Early Christian Symbol—thirteenth-century gravestone
X. Gothic fountain—Casa del Arcediano, Barcelona
XI. Giorgione, The Storm
XII. Roman statue of the Twins
XIII. Gothic Miniature of The Apparition of the Holy Grail
XIV. Bosch, Garden of Delights
XV. Portal of the Romanesque cathedral at Clonfert, Co. Galway
XVI. Chinese symbol of heaven
Between pages 296 and 297
XVII. Archetypal image of the Archangel
XVIII. Celtic candelabra incorporating symbolic horse and solar wheel
XIX. Antonio Tapies. A painting, 1958
XX. Door to the sanctuary of the church of San Plácido, Madrid
XXI. Libra and other signs of th; e Zodiac
XXII. Gothic miniature of ship and whale
XXIII. ‘Bird-woman’—relief in Barcelona cathedral
XXIV. Roman painting of twin-tailed siren
XXV. Greek sphinx, fifth century B.C.
XXVI. Jacob’s dream (after an old engraving)
XXVII. Heraldic supporters—College of San Gregorio, Valladolid
XXVIII. Tetramorph. Romanesque painting

viii

PLATES

XXIX. Roman composition of Adam and Eve
XXX. The sixth sign of the Zodiac
XXXI. Detail of a painting by Pedro Berruguete, c. 1500
XXXII. Circular representation of the signs of the Zodiac

FOREWORD

IN THE INTRODUCTION to this volume Señor Cirlot shows his wide and
learned conception of the subject-matter of this dictionary, and the only task left
to me is to present the author himself, who has been familiar to me for some years
as the leading protagonist of a very vital group of painters and poets in Barcelona.
Juan Eduardo Cirlot was born in Barcelona in 1916, and after matriculating from
the College of the Jesuits there, studied music. From 1943 onwards he was active
as a poet, and published four volumes of verse between 1946 and 1953. Meanwhile
the group of painters and poets already mentioned had been fo rmed (Dau al Set),
and Cirlot became its leading theoretician. For historical or political reasons,
Spain had been slow to develop a contemporary movement in the arts comparable
to those in other European countries; its greatest artists, Picasso and Miró, had
identified themselves with the School of Paris. But now a vigorous and independent
‘School of Barcelona’ was to emerge, with Antonio Tapies and Modesto Cuixart
as its outstanding representatives. In a series of books and brochures Cirlot not
only presented the individual artists of this group, but also instructed the Spanish
public in the history and theoretical foundations of the modern movement as a
whole.
In the course of this critical activity Señor Cirlot inevitably became aware of
the ‘symbolist ethos’ of modern art. A symbolic element is present in all art, in so
far as art is subject to psychological interpretation. But in so far as art has evolved
in our time away from the representation of an objective reality towards the
expression of subjective states of feeling, to that extent it has become a wholly
symbolic art, and it was perhaps the necessity for a clarification of this function
in art which led Señor Cirlot to his profound study of symbolism in all its
aspects.
The result is a volume which can either be used as a work of reference, or
simply read for pleasure and instruction. There are many entries in this dictionary—
those on Architecture, Colour, Cross, Graphics, Mandala, Numbers, Serpent,
Water, Zodiac, to give a few examples—which can be read as independent essays.

FOREWORD

x

But in general the greatest use of the volume will be for the elucidation of those
many symbols which we encounter in the arts and in the history of ideas. Man,
it has been said, is a symbolizing animal; it is evident that at no stage in the
development of civilization has man been able to dispense with symbols. Science
and technology have not freed man from his dependence on symbols: indeed, it
might be argued that they have increased his need for them. In any case, symbology
itself is now a science, and this volume is a necessary instrument in its study.
HERBERT READ

INTRODUCTION

ACTUALITY OF THE SYMBOL

Delimitation of the Symbolic On entering the realms of symbolism, whether by
way of systematized artistic forms or the living, dynamic forms of dreams and
visions, we have constantly kept in mind the essential need to mark out the field
of symbolic action, in order to prevent confusion between phenomena which
might appear to be identical when they are merely similar or externally related.
The temptation to over-substantiate an argument is one which is difficult to
resist. It is necessary to be on one’s guard against this danger, even if full compliance with the ideals of scholarship is not always feasible; for we believe with
Marius Schneider that there is no such thing as ‘ideas or beliefs’, only ‘ideas and
beliefs’, that is to say that in the one there is always at least something of the
other—quite apart from the fact that, as far as symbolism is concerned, other
phenomena of a spiritual kind play an important part.
When a critic such as Caro Baroja (10) declares himself against any symbolic
interpretation of myth, he doubtless has his reasons for so doing, although one
reason may be that nothing approaching a complete evaluation of symbolism has
yet appeared. He says: ‘When they seek to convince us that Mars is the symbol
of War, and Hercules of Strength, we can roundly refute them. All this may once
have been true for rhetoricians, for idealist philosophers or for a group of more or
less pedantic graeculi. But, for those who really believed in ancient deities and
heroes, Mars had an objective reality, even if this reality was quite different from
that which we are groping for today. Symbolism occurs when natural religions are
degenerating.’ In point of fact, the mere equation of Mars with War and of Hercules with Labour has never been characteristic of the symbolist ethos, which
always eschews the categorical and restrictive. This comes about through allegory, a mechanical and restricting derivative of the symbol, whereas the symbol
proper is a dynamic and polysymbolic reality, imbued with emotive and conceptual values: in other words, with true life.

ACTUALITY OF THE SYMBOL

xii

However, the above quotation is extremely helpful in enabling us to mark out
the limits of the symbolic. If there is or if there may be a symbolic function in
everything, a ‘communicating tension’, nevertheless this fleeting possession of
the being or the object by the symbolic does not wholly transform it into a
symbol. The error of symbolist artists and writers has always been precisely
this: that they sought to turn the entire sphere of reality into a vehicle for impalpable ‘correspondences’, into an obsessive conjunction of analogies, without
being aware that the symbolic is opposed to the existential and instrumental and
without realizing that the laws of symbolism hold good only within its own
particular sphere. This distinction is one which we would also apply to the
Pythagorean thesis that ‘everything is disposed according to numbers’, as well as
to microbiological theory. Neither the assertion of the Greek philosopher on the
one hand, nor the vital pullulation subjected invisibly to the science of Weights
and Measures on the other, is false; but all life and all reality cannot be forced to
conform with either one theory or the other, simply because of its certitude, for
it is certain only within the limits of theory. In the same way, the symbolic is true
and active on one plane of reality, but it is almost unthinkable to apply it systematically and consistently on the plane of existence. The consequent scepticism
concerning this plane of reality—the magnetic life-source of symbols and their
concomitants—explains the widespread reluctance to admit symbolical values;
but such an attitude is lacking in any scientific justification.
Carl Gustav Jung, to whom present-day symbology owes so much, points
out in defence of this branch of human thought that: ‘For the modern mind,
analogies—even when they are analogies with the most unexpected symbolic
meanings—are nothing but self-evident absurdities. This worthy judgement does
not, however, in any way alter the fact that such affinities of thought do exist and
that they have been playing an important rôle for centuries. Psychology has a
duty to recognize these facts; it should leave it to the profane to denigrate them as
absurdities or as obscurantism’ (32). Elsewhere Jung observes that all the energy
and interest devoted today by western Man to science and technology were, by
ancient Man, once dedicated to mythology (31). And not only his energy and
interest but also his speculative and theorizing propensities, creating the immeasurable wealth of Hindu, Chinese and Islamic philosophy, the Cabbala itself and
the painstaking investigations of alchemy and similar studies. The view that both
ancient and oriental man possessed a technique of speculative thought which
assured them of some success in prophecy is affirmed by, for example, the
archaeologist and historian, Contenau, who maintains that the schools of soothsayers and magicians of Mesopotamia could not have continued to flourish with-

xiii

SYMBOLISM AND HISTORICITY

out a definite proportion of correct prognostications; and again by Gaston
Bachelard (1), posing the question: ‘How could a legend be kept alive and perpetuated if each generation had not “intimate reasons” for believing in it?’ The
symbolist meaning of a phenomenon helps to explain these ‘intimate reasons’,
since it links the instrumental with the spiritual, the human with the cosmic, the
casual with the causal, disorder with order, and since it justifies a word like
universe which, without these wider implications, would be meaningless, a dismembered and chaotic pluralism; and finally, because it always points to the
transcendental.
To revert to the question of the limits of the symbolic and to fix more precisely the aims of this work, let us consider how, on the façade of a monastery, for
example, we may note: (a) the beauty of the whole; (b) the constructional technique; (c) its period-styling, bearing in mind the geographical and historical implications; (d) the implicit or explicit cultural and religious values, etc.; and also (x)
the symbolic meaning of the forms. In this instance, the appreciation of the
symbolical implications of an ogival arch beneath a rose window could constitute
an item of knowledge different in kind from the other items we have enumerated.
To facilitate analyses of this kind without, let us repeat, confusing the symbolic
essence of an object—the transitory symbolic function which heightens it at any
given moment—with its total significance as a real object in the world—that is
our main aim. The fact that a Romanesque cloister corresponds exactly to the
concept of temenos (sacred precinct) and to the images of the soul, the fountain
and the central fount—like sutratma (silver thread), linking a phenomenon by
way of its centre to its origin—does not invalidate or even modify the architectural and utilitarian reality of this cloister; it enriches its significance by identifying it with an ‘inner form’.

SYMBOLISM AND HISTORICITY

One of the most deplorable errors of symbolist theory, in its ‘spontaneous’ as
well as in its occult and even its dogmatic interpretations, lies in opposing the
symbolical to the historical. Arguing from the premise that there are symbols—
and, indeed, there are many—which exist only within their own symbolic structure, the false conclusion is then drawn that all or almost all transcendental events
which appear to be both historical and symbolic at once—in other words, to be
significant once and for all time—may be seen simply as symbolic matter transformed into legend and thence into history.

SYMBOLISM AND HISTORICITY

xiv

The most authoritative students of religion, orientalists and even esoteric
scholars have recently raised their voices in protest against this error. Mircea
Eliade asserts that ‘the two points of view are only superficially irreconcilable .
. ., for it must not be thought that a symbolic connotation annuls the material and
specific validity of an object or action. Symbolism adds a new value to an object
or an act, without thereby violating its immediate or “historical” validity. Once it
is brought to bear, it turns the object or action into an “open” event: symbolic
thought opens the door on to immediate reality for us, but without weakening or
invalidating it; seen in this light the universe is no longer sealed off, nothing is
isolated inside its own existence: everything is linked by a system of correspondences and assimilations. Man in early society became aware of himself in a
world wide open and rich in meaning. It remains to be seen whether these “openings” are just another means of escape or whether, on the other hand, they offer
the only possible way of accepting the true reality of the world’ (18).
In this quotation we can see clearly formulated the distinction between the
historical and the symbolic. We can also see the everpresent possibility of a
bridge linking both forms of reality in a cosmic synthesis. The hint of scepticism
in the concluding words of this Rumanian scholar should be ascribed to his
predominantly scientific training at a time when science, with its emphasis upon
the analytical approach, has achieved admirable results in every sphere of reality
without showing itself capable of grasping the overall organic pattern, that is: as
‘multiplicity in unity’. This scientific disaffection has been well defined by Martin Buber: Imago mundi nova, imago nulla. In other words, the world today lacks
its own image, because this image can be formulated only by means of a universal
synthesis of knowledge—a synthesis which, since the Renaissance and the de
omni re scibili of Pico della Mirandola, has daily become more difficult.
In connexion with this question of the relationship between the historical and
the symbolic, René Guénon has observed: ‘There is indeed over-eager acceptance
of the belief that to allow a symbolic meaning must imply the rejection of the
literal or historical meaning; such a view shows an ignorance of the law of correspondences. This law is the foundation of all symbolism and by virtue of it every
thing proceeding essentially from a metaphysical principle, which is the source of
its reality, translates and expresses this principle in its own way and according to
its own level of existence, so that all things are related and joined together in total,
universal harmony which is, in its many guises, a reflection, as it were, of its own
fundamental unity . . . One result of this is the range of meaning contained in every
symbol: any one thing may, indeed, be regarded as an illustration not only of
metaphysical principles but also of higher levels of reality’ (25).

xv

SYMBOLISM AND HISTORICITY

The above considerations make it clear that the symbolic in no way excludes
the historical, since both forms may be seen—from the ideological point of view—
as functional aspects of a third: the metaphysical principle, the platonic ‘idea’; or
all three may be seen as reciprocal expressions of one meaning on different levels.
Going to the kernel of the problem, religion—which naturally absorbs so much of
his attention—Jung agrees with Eliade and Guénon in his belief that ‘the psychic
fact “God” is a collective archetype, a psychic existent, which must not in itself
be confused with the concept of a metaphysical God’. The existence of the
archetype (that is, of the symbol) ‘neither postulates a God, nor does it deny that
he exists’ (31); yet although this is, strictly speaking, unquestionable, it must
surely be agreed—if only in theory—that the universality of an archetype affirms rather than denies the reality of the principle in question. Consequently the
symbolic, being independent of the historical, not only does not exclude it but, on
the contrary, tends to root it firmly in reality, because of the parallelism between
the collective or individual world and the cosmic. And because of the great depth
of the hidden roots of all systems of meanings, a further consequence is our
tendency to espouse the theory that all symbolist traditions, both western and
oriental, spring from one common source. Whether this one source once appeared
in time and space as a primeval focal point, or whether it stems from the ‘collective unconscious’, is quite another matter.
We should like to emphasize that when we refer, in the various passages
quoted and paraphrased, to ‘tradition’ or ‘traditional doctrine’, we are referring
only to the continuity—conscious or unconscious—and the coherence of a system, as much in the dimension of space as in that of time. Some writers favour the
doctrine of a spontaneous growth of historically unrelated ideas, while others
believe only in the spread of ideas through culture. Loeffler, for example, comments upon the importance of proving that the creation of the storm-myth belongs neither to race nor tribe, since it occurred simultaneously in Asia, Europe,
Oceania and America (38); this is akin to the contention of Rank that: ‘The myth
is the collective dream of the people’, a concept substantiated by Rudolf Steiner.
Bayley, following Max Müller, believes in the common origin of the human race,
which he contends is proved by the universal themes of folklore, legend and
superstition. Orientalism, the study of comparative religion, mythology, cultural
anthropology, the history of civilization and art, esoterism, psychoanalysis, and
symbological research have all combined to provide us with ample material to
substantiate ‘psychological truth’, and this ‘essential oneness’; further evidence
has been forthcoming from the psychic and also from physiological bases com-

ORIGIN AND CONTINUITY OF THE SYMBOL

xvi

mon to us all on account of the importance of the human body—its shape as well
as its postures—in relation to the simplest elements of symbolist dialectic.

ORIGIN AND CONTINUITY OF THE SYMBOL

The Development of Symbolism Diel rightly asserts that the symbol is a vehicle at
once universal and particular. Universal, since it transcends history; particular,
because it relates to a definite period of history. Without going into questions of
‘origin’, we shall show that most writers agree in tracing the beginnings of symbolist thought to prehistoric times—to the latter part of the Palaeolithic Age. Our
present knowledge of primitive thought and the deductions which can justifiably
be drawn concerning the art and the belongings of early man substantiate this
hypothesis, but substantiation has been forthcoming particularly from research
upon epigraphic engravings. The constellations, animals and plants, stones and
the countryside were the tutors of primitive man. It was St. Paul who formulated
the basic notion of the immediate consequence of this contact with the visible,
when he said: ‘Per visibilia ad invisibilia’ (Romans i, 20). The process whereby
the beings of this world are ordered according to their properties, so that the
words of action and of spiritual and moral facts may be explored by analogy, is
one which can also be seen, with the dawning of history, in the transition of the
pictograph into the ideograph, as well as in the origins of art.
We could adduce an immense weight of testimony offered by human faith and
wisdom proving that the invisible or spiritual order is analogous to the material
order. We shall come back to this later when we define ‘analogy’. Let us recall the
saying of Plato, taken up later by the pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite: ‘What is
perceptible to the senses is the reflection of what is intelligible to the mind’; and
echoed in the Tabula Smaragdina: ‘What is below is like what is above; what is
above is like what is below’, and also in the remark of Goethe: ‘What is within is
also without.’ However it may be, symbolism is organized in its vast explanatory
and creative function as a system of highly complex relations, one in which the
dominant factor is always a polarity, linking the physical and metaphysical worlds.
What palaeolithic Man evolved out of this process is impossible to know except
through indirect deductions. Our knowledge about the latter part of the Neolithic
Age is considerably wider. Schneider and Berthelot both consider that this was
the period (that is: possibly the fourth millenary before history) when man
underwent that great transformation which endowed him with the gifts of creation and organization, qualities which distinguish him from the merely natural

xvii

ORIGIN AND CONTINUITY OF THE SYMBOL

world. Berthelot, who has studied this process in the Near East, has given the
name of ‘astrobiology’ to the religious and intellectual cultures of that epoch. The
evolution of Man up to this point in history must have passed through the
following stages: animism; totemism; and megalithic, lunar and solar cultures. The
subsequent stages must have been: cosmic ritualism; polytheism; monotheism;
and, finally, moral philosophy. Berthelot considers astrology, astronomy, arithmetic and alchemy of Chaldean origin, a contention which points conclusively to
a single focal point in time and space.
He defines the value and significance of astrobiology in the following terms:
‘Between on the one hand the world-vision—in many other respects variable and
complex—of primitive races, and the vision of modern science and Western Europe on the other, an intermediary view has long held sway in Asia and the
Mediterranean. It is what may be termed “astrobiology” or the interplay of
astronomic law (the mathematical order) and vegetable and animal life (the biological order). All things form at one and the same time an organic whole and a
precise order. The domestication of animals and the care of plants (agriculture)
had become a reality long before history began, both in Chaldaea and in Egypt—
that is, before 3,000 B.C. Agriculture ensures the regular production of precisely
determined species of vegetable, and also ensures an appreciation of their annual
“rhythm” of growth, flowering, fructifying, sowing and harvesting, a rhythm
which is in direct and constant relation to the calendar, in other words, the
position of the heavenly bodies. Time and natural phenomena were measured by
reference to the moon before they came to be measured by the sun . . . . Astrobiology hovers between a biology of the heavenly bodies and an astronomy of
human beings; beginning with the former, it tends towards the latter’ (7). During
the neolithic era the geometric idea of space was formulated; so also were the
significance of the number seven (derived from this concept of space), the relation
between heaven and earth, the cardinal points, and the relations between the
various elements of the septenary (the planetary gods, the days of the week) and
between those of the quaternary (the seasons, the colours, the cardinal points, the
elements). Berthelot believes in the slow spread of these ideas, rather than in their
spontaneous and independent appearance. He points to their probable dissemination through either the northern or southern areas of the Pacific, mentioning in
passing that America may well have been, in spirit, a colony of Asia before that of
Europe (7); and another stream may have been flowing in the opposite direction:
from the Near East into Central Europe.
The argument about whether European megalithic culture came before or
after the great oriental civilizations is far from settled. Here questions of symbol-

ORIGIN AND CONTINUITY OF THE SYMBOL

xviii

ism arise. The importance of the Franco-Cantabrian zone in the Palaeolithic Age
is well known; it is also known that the art forms of this district spread across
Europe in the direction of Siberia and southwards across North Africa to the
southernmost part of the continent. There was, no doubt, a period of transition
between this early flowering and the great megalithic monuments. However that
may be, Schneider specifically says in connexion with the symbolic forms studied by him (50): ‘In the sixth chapter I shall try to summarize this esoteric
doctrine, the systemization of which seems to have been originally the work of
megalithic cultures.’ And his attitude towards the zone of origin leaves little room
for doubt for he states that ‘the megalithic must have spread from Europe to India
via Danubian culture, a new stage of development beginning with the Age of
Metals’. He points out that there are marked similarities between the ideas of
regions as far apart as America, New Guinea, Indonesia, Western Europe, Central
Asia and the Far East, that is to say, of areas in all parts of the world.
Let us consider now the similarity between the discoveries attributed by
Schneider to megalithic European culture and those ascribed by Berthelot to the
Far East. In Schneider’s opinion the final stage of neolithic development differed
from the earlier stage ‘in the preference it showed for static and geometric forms,
in its organizing and creative genius (evolving fabulous animals, musical instruments, mathematical proportions, number-ideas, astronomy and a tonal system
with truly musical sounds). The carrying over of totemistic mystical elements
into a more advanced, pastoral civilization explains some of the fundamental
characteristics of the new mystique. . . . The entire cosmos comes to be conceived
after the human pattern. As the essence of all phenomena is, in the last resort, a
vibrant rhythm, the intimate nature of phenomena is directly perceptible by
polyrhythmic human consciousness. For this reason, imitating is knowing. The
echo is the paradigmatic form of imitation. Language, geometric symbols and
number-ideas are a cruder form of imitation.’ Schneider then observes that according to Speiser and Heine-Geldern, ‘the outstanding cultural elements of megalithic
culture are: cyclopean buildings, commemorative stones, stones as the dwellingplaces of souls, cultural stone-circles, palafittes, head-hunting, the sacrifice of
oxen, eye-shaped ornaments, death-ships, family-trees, signal-drums, the sacrificial stake, and labyrinths’ (50).
It is precisely these elements that have most successfully preserved their
symbolic form down the ages. And did not these express, even in megalithic
times, the very essence of human life, bursting from the unconscious in the shape
of a constructive and configurating longing? Or was it, rather, the ever-present,
primary forms of life, sacrifice and intellection of the world which found everlast-

xix

SYMBOLISM IN THE WEST

ing expression in these cultural creations, making an ineradicable impression on
the mind of Man? One may unhesitatingly answer in the affirmative to both
questions, for they refer to the different but parallel phenomena of culture and
psychology.

SYMBOLISM IN THE WEST

It was Egypt who gave shape, in her religion and hieroglyphics, to Man’s awareness of the material and spiritual, natural and cultural duality of the world. Either
independently or together, the various civilizations of Mesopotamia developed
their own particular systems; yet these systems were but outward variations of
the one true, innermost, universal pattern. There are differences of opinion about
dating the first appearance—or at any rate the final crystallization—of some of
the most important and complex symbols. Some writers argue strongly in favour
of remote origins. Krappe (35) holds that the scientific study of the planets and
their identification with the gods of the Babylonian pantheon date only from the
7th century B.C.; but others trace these beginnings as far back as the age of
Hammurabi (2000 B.C.) or earlier. Father Heras, for example, says: ‘The early
Indians, as has been revealed by inscriptions, were the discoverers of the movements of the sun across the sky—the basis of the zodiacal system. Their Zodiac
had only eight constellations and each constellation was supposed to be a “form
of God”. All these “forms of God” in the end became deities, each one presiding
over one particular constellation; this is what happened in Rome, for example.
The eight Indian signs of the Zodiac are: Edu (ram), Yal (harp), Nand (crab),
Amma (mother), Tuk (balance), Kani (arrow), Kuda (pitcher), Min (fish).’ The
dodecatemorian system of the Zodiac first appears in the form in which we know
it as late as the 6th century B.C. Egyptian and Chaldean science was partly
assimilated by the Syrians, Phoenicians and Greeks, reaching the latter largely
through secret societies. Herodotus points out, in writing of the Pythagoreans,
that they were obliged to wear linen clothes ‘in accordance with the Orphic
ceremonies, which are the same as the Egyptian . . .’.
The mythologies of the Mediterranean peoples were characterized by a vivid,
dramatic vitality which came to be expressed both in their art and in their myths,
legends and dramatic poetry. These myths enshrined the moral principles, the
natural laws, the great contrasts and the transformations which determine the
course of cosmic and human life. Frazer points out that ‘under the names of
Osiris, Tammuz, Adonis and Attis, the peoples of Egypt and Western Asia rep-

SYMBOLISM IN THE WEST

xx

resented the yearly decay and revival of life, especially of vegetable life’ (21). The
tasks of Hercules, the legend of Jason, the ‘histories’ of the heroic age of Greece
which provided the inspiration for the classical tragedies, have such great archetypal power that they constitute timeless lessons for mankind. But beneath this
mythological and literary symbolism and allegory, a subterranean stream of oriental influence was beginning to flow in from the East.
Principally during the Lower Roman Empire, when the cohesion of the classical world was beginning to dissolve, Hebraic, Chaldean and Egyptian elements
began to ferment. Dualist Manichaeism and Gnosticism began to threaten the
position of early Christianity. Among the Gnostics, the emblem and the graphic
symbol were used for the propagation of initiatory truths. Many of the innumerable images were not of their own creation but were compiled from various
sources, mainly Semitic. Symbolism veers towards the Unitarian doctrine of
reality and comes to be a specialized branch of speculation. Diodorus Siculus,
Pliny, Tacitus, Plutarch, Apuleius all reveal some familiarity with oriental symbolism. Aristotelian thought also contained a strong element of symbolism. In
Syria, Mesopotamia, Transcaucasia and Egypt, oriental Christianity had absorbed a vast symbological inheritance. Similarly, those Roman colonies in the
West that survived the Nordic invasions retained many attributes of ancient
times, including traditional symbols. But, according to the Rev. Fr. Festugière, in
La Révélation d’Hermès Trismégiste, one of the currents which were most able to
contribute to the formation of the symbolist and alchemic ‘corpus’ was that of
the literature of the ‘Mirabilia’. This was apparently founded by Bolus the
Democritean during the 3rd-2nd centuries B.C. and was continued for centuries in
a virtually unbroken tradition by Pseudo-Manetho, Nigidius Figulus, Demetrius,
Apollodorus, etc., culminating in the Book of the Things of Nature, a Syrian work
of the 7th century A.D.
The concept of the analogy between the visible and the invisible world is,
then, held jointly by the pagan religions of the Lower Empire, by neoplatonic and
Christian doctrines, except that each one of these three systems uses this concept
for its own ends. According to Eliade, Theophilus of Antioch would point out, to
those who denied the resurrection of the dead, the signs which God places in
reach of Man in the realm of natural phenomena: the cycle of the seasons, of the
days and nights. He would even go further and say: ‘May there not perhaps be
resurrection for the seeds and the fruits?’ (18). In his Letter number LV, St.
Augustine shows that teaching carried out with the help of symbols feeds and
stirs the fires of love, enabling Man to excel himself; he also alludes to the value
of all things in nature—organic and inorganic—as bearers of spiritual messages by

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SYMBOLISM IN THE WEST

Title-page of book of emblems by Joachim Camerario
(Nuremberg, 1590) with symbolic tree, circle
precinct and grotesques

SYMBOLISM IN THE WEST

xxii

virtue of their distinctive forms and characteristics. All the mediaeval lapidaries,
herbals and bestiaries owe their origin to this concept. Most of the classical
Fathers of the Church have something to say about symbolism and since they
enjoyed such a high reputation in Roman times, one can see why this was the
period when the symbol came to be so deeply experienced, loved and understood,
as Davy emphasizes (14). Pinedo mentions the immense cultural value, particularly during the Middle Ages, of the Clavis Melitoniae—an orthodox version of
ancient symbolism. According to Cardinal Pitra—quoted by Pinedo—an awareness of this ‘Key’ is to be found in most mediaeval authors. This is not the place
to give a summary of their ideas or works, but we should like to mention in
passing the important works of: Alan of Lille, De Planctu Naturae; Herrad of
Landsberg, Hortus Deliciarum; Hildegard of Bingen, Scivias Domini, Liber
Divinorum Operum Simplicis Hominis; Bernard Silvestris, De Re Mundi
Universitate; Hugh of St. Victor, Didascalion, Commentarium in Hierarchiam
Coelestem, etc. The Key of St. Melito, bishop of Sardis, dates from the 2nd
century A.D. Some other sources of Christian symbolism are: Rabanus Maurus,
Allegoriae in Sacram Scripturam; Odo, bishop of Tusculum; Isidore of Seville,
Etymologiarum; Johannes Scotus Erigena, John of Salisbury, William of St. Thierry,
etc. St. Thomas Aquinas himself speaks of the pagan philosophers as sources of
external and demonstrable proofs of Christian truths. Concerning the intimate
nature of mediaeval symbolism, Jung observes that, in those days ‘analogy was
not so much a logical figure as a secret identity’, that is to say, a continuation of
primitive, animistic thought (32).
The Renaissance also showed great interest in symbolism, although in a
manner more individualistic and cultured, more profane, literary and aesthetic.
Dante had fashioned his Commedia upon a basis of oriental symbols. In the 15th
century particular use was made of two Greek writers of the 2nd and 3rd centuries A.D. They are Horapollo, with his Hieroglyphica; and the anonymous compiler of the Physiologus. Horapollo, inspired by the Egyptian hieroglyphic system, the key to which had been lost by his time, tried to reconstruct its meaning
upon the basis of its configuration and elemental symbolism. In 1467, an Italian
writer, Francesco Colonna, wrote a work, Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (published
in Venice in 1499), which enjoyed widespread success and in which the symbol
had now acquired the particular, mobile significance which has come to characterize it in modern times. In 1505, Colonna’s editor published Horapollo’s work,
which in turn influenced two other important writers at the same time: Andrea
Alciati, author of Emblemata (1531), which was to arouse a disproportionate
taste for profane symbolism throughout Europe (Henry Green in his Andrea

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SYMBOLISM IN THE WEST

Alciati and his Books of Emblems, London, 1872, names more than three thousand titles of books dealing with emblems); and Giampietro Valeriano, author of
the compendious Hieroglyphica (1556). In 15th-century painting there is abundant evidence of this interest in symbolism: Botticelli, Mantegna, Pinturicchio,
Giovanni Bellini, Leonardo, for example; later, during the 16th, 17th and 18th
centuries, this interest tended towards the allegorical. One may say that, from the
latter part of the Middle Ages onwards, the West lost that sense of unity which
characterized the symbol and symbolist tradition. Yet proof of its continued
existence is offered by the occasional revelation of diverse aspects in the work of
poets, artists and writers, from Giovanni da Udine to Antonio Gaudi, from Bosch
to Max Ernst. In German Romanticism, the interest in the deeper layers of
psychic life—in dreams and their meaning, in the unconscious—is the fount
which has given rise to the present-day interest in symbology, which, although
still partially repressed, again dwells in the deep wells of the spirit, as it did
before being circumscribed by a system with a rigid cosmic pattern. Thus, Schubert,
in his Symbolik des Traumes (1837), says: ‘The prototypes of the images and
forms utilized by the oneirocritic, poetic and prophetic idioms, can be found
around us in Nature, revealing herself as a world of materialized dream, as a
prophetic language whose hieroglyphics are beings and forms.’ Most of the literature of the first half of the 19th century, especially the Nordic, presupposes a
feeling for the symbolic, for the significant. Thus, Ludwig Tieck, in Runenburg,
says of his protagonist: ‘Insensitive from that moment to the beauty of flowers,
in which he believes he can see “the gaping wound of Nature” throbbing’ (the
theme of Philoctetes as well as of Amfortas in Parsifal), ‘he finds himself drawn
towards the mineral world.’
Innumerable genera still conserve symbols in semeiotic form, ossified and
sometimes degraded from the universal plane to the particular. We have already
referred to literary emblems. In a similar class are the distinctive marks used by
mediaeval and Renaissance paper-manufacturers. In this connexion, Bayley says
that, from their first appearance in 1282 up to the second half of the 18th century,
they had an esoteric meaning; and that in them, as in fossils, we can see the
crystallization of the ideals of numerous mystic sects of mediaeval Europe (4).
The popular art of all European peoples is another inexhaustable mine of symbols. One only has to glance through a work like that of Helmuth Th. Bossert in
order to find amongst the images such well-known subjects as the cosmic tree, the
snake, the phoenix, the ship of death, the bird on the rooftop, the two-headed
eagle, the planetary division into two groups of three and of four, grotesques,
rhomboids, lines and zigzags, etc. Furthermore, legends and folktales, when their

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xxiv

editors have been faithful, as in the case of Perrault and the Grimm brothers, have
retained their mythical and archetypal structure (38). In the same way, in lyrical
poetry, alongside works created within the canons of explicit symbolism—best
illustrated in the works of René Ghil—there are frequent flowerings of symbolic
motifs springing spontaneously out of the creative spirit.

THE SYMBOLIC MEANING OF DREAMS

What a myth represents for a people, for any one culture, or for any given
moment of history, is represented for the individual by the symbolic images of
dreams, by visions and by fantasy or lyricism. This distinction does not imply
dichotomy: many dreams have been known to express premonitions. But when
the symbol—or the premonition—goes beyond the particular and the subjective,
we find ourselves in the realm of augury and prophecy; symbolic laws can explain
both phenomena, but the latter may be a revelation of the supernatural.
Given our contemporary psychoanalytic concept of the ‘unconscious’, we
must accept the placing within it of all those dynamic forms which give rise to
symbols; for, according to Jung’s way of thinking, the unconscious is ‘the matrix
of the human mind and its inventions’ (33). The unconscious was ‘discovered’
theoretically by Carus, Schopenhauer and Hartmann, and experimentally by
Charcot, Bernheim, Janet, Freud and other psychologists. But this newly acquired knowledge merely showed to be internal what had formerly been thought
to be external to Man. For example, Greek seers believed that dreams came from
‘without’, that is, from the domain of the gods. Now, esoteric tradition, in accordance with the Hindu doctrine of the three planes of consciousness, had always
been aware that the vertical division of thought could also be seen on three levels:
the subconscious (instinctive and affective thought); consciousness (ideological
and reflexive thought); and superconsciousness (intuitive thought and the higher
truths). Hence, by way of simplification, we shall adopt the Jungian term ‘unconscious’ instead of ‘subconscious’, since one rightly asks oneself when dealing
with many authors: ‘How can they be so certain that the unconscious is “lower”
and not “higher” than the conscious?’ (31).
The interest in dreams and their symbolic content goes back to Antiquity,
when, although the theory was never consciously formulated, it was implied that
the phenomenon could be considered as a kind of personal mythology, even
though the manner of its expression was the objective, collective myth. The
famous dreams of the Bible; the book of Artemidorus Daldianus; the interpreta-

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THE SYMBOLIC MEANING OF DREAMS

tive dictionaries of Chaldean, Egyptian and Arabic origin bear witness to the
attention paid to dreams as harbingers of hidden truths about the submerged life
of the psyche and, more rarely, about external and objective facts. The mechanism
of oneiromancy, like that of other divinatory or prophetic techniques, is a universal phenomenon; for such techniques are based upon the higher activity of the
unconscious in response to certain stimuli, and upon the automatic acquisition of
unconscious stores of knowledge remaining unperceived until ‘read’ in accordance with the principles of numbers, orientation, form and space. We must again
underline the way in which Jung approaches this universal phenomenon. He says
that the fact of ‘an opinion being held for so long and so widely necessarily
demonstrates that in some way it must be true, that is, psychologically true’. He
explains psychological truth as a fact, not as a judgement or an opinion, and he
considers that careful demonstration and corroboration are evidence enough for
this (31).
Since an extensive bibliography of dreams is already available, it is here
intended only to recall that they afford Man another means of making contact
with his deepest aspirations, with the geometric or moral laws of the universe,
and also with the muted stirrings of the submerged unconscious. Teillard points
out that in dreams all layers of the psyche are revealed, including the deepest. And
just as the embryo passes through the evolutionary animal stages, so we carry
with us archaic ‘memories’ which can be brought to light (56). On the other hand,
Carus believed that the soul was in communion with the cosmic, and that,
oneirocritically speaking, the soul was susceptible to truths different from those
which rule the waking life; in this way he associated dreams with those rituals
which enabled Man to enter into the great secrets of Nature. It is usually accepted
that modern ways of thinking differ from primitive thought-processes only with
regard to consciousness, and that the unconscious has hardly changed since the
Upper Palaeolithic Stage.
Oneirocritic symbols, then, are not strictly different from mythical, religious,
lyrical or primitive symbols. Except that, with the primary archetypes, one finds
intermixed a kind of subworld consisting of the remains of existential images
drawn from reality, which may be lacking in symbolic meaning, which may be
expressions of the physiological—merely memories—or which may also possess a symbolism related to the material and primary forms from which they
originate. In this dictionary we have kept to traditional symbols only, but it is
evident that other more ‘recent’ symbols must derive from the older—as the
motor-car from the carriage—or else must be related through the symbolism of

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xxvi

form, although this must always be a question of similar symbols, not of the
same symbol nor of the same order of meaning.
There is another problem which we cannot ignore: not all human beings are on
the same level. Even if we do not accept the idea of radical differences, or the
concept of spiritual growth—a concept which always has a touch of the oriental
and esoteric about it—it is undeniable that differences of intensity (emotion,
inner life, richness of thought and feeling) and of quality (intellectual and authentically moral education) bring about essentially different levels of thought, whether
it be logical or magical thought, rational speculation or oneirocritic elaboration.
Havelock Ellis has pointed out that extraordinary dreams are confined to people
of genius, and according to Jung even primitive races make a similar distinction;
the Elgonyi tribe in the Elgon jungle explained to him that they recognized two
types of dream: the ordinary dream of the unimportant man, and the ‘great
vision’, generally the exclusive privilege of outstanding men (34). Hence interpretative theories of symbolic material must vary according to whether they are
drawn from the analysis of the dreams of more or less pathological individuals,
from the dreams of normal people, from those of outstanding men, or from
collective myths. The materialistic tone pervading the symbolic classifications of
many psychoanalysts is accounted for by the nature of their sources of information. On the other hand, the symbology of philosophers, founders of religions
and poets is wholly idealist and cosmic in direction, embracing all objects, seeking
after the infinite and pointing to the mysteries of the mystical ‘centre’. This is
verified by Jung, who shows that accounts of fantasy or of dreams always
contain not only what is most peremptory for the narrator but also what for the
moment is most painful (i.e. most important) for him (31). It is this ‘importance’
which fixes the plane upon which any system of interpretation must exist. Freud’s
definition (‘Every dream is a repressed desire’) points to the same conclusion, for
our desires are the index of our aspirations and our potentialities.

THE SYMBOLISM OF ALCHEMY

In his On Psychic Energy, Jung has asserted that: ‘The spiritual appears in the
psyche as an instinct, indeed as a real passion. . . It is not derived from any other
instinct, but is a principle sui generis, that is, a specific and necessary form of
instinctual power.’ Apart from the fact that this asseveration would seem to put
an end to the assumption that science is necessarily materialistic, its importance
lies in that it takes up the essential platonic doctrine of the soul, which we here

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THE SYMBOLISM OF ALCHEMY

equate with the Jungian principle of spirituality, even though at times it may be
necessary to treat the two principles separately. Plato in Timaeus, Plotinus in the
Enneads, elaborate the idea that the soul is a stranger on earth, that it has descended from the spaceless and timeless universe, or that it has ‘fallen’ on account
of sin into matter, that it initiates a process of life-giving growth corresponding to
the period of involution.
At any given moment, the inverse of this downward and inward movement
can be produced: the soul recalls that its origin is beyond space and time, beyond
living creatures and the world of objects, even beyond images; it then tends
towards the annihilation of the corporeal and begins to ascend towards its Origin.
Iamblichus explains this as follows: ‘A principle of the soul is that it is superior
to all Nature, and that through it we can rise above the order and the systems of
the world. When the soul is thus separated from all subordinate natures, it exchanges this life for another and abandons this order of things to bind itself
inseparably with another.’ The idea of rotation is the keystone of most transcendent symbols: of the mediaeval Rota; of the Wheel of Buddhist transformations;
of the zodiacal cycle; of the myth of the Gemini; and of the opus of the alchemists. The idea of the world as a labyrinth or of life as a pilgrimage leads to the
idea of the ‘centre’ as a symbol of the absolute goal of Man—Paradise regained,
heavenly Jerusalem. Pictorially, this central point is sometimes identified with
the geometric centre of the symbolic circle; sometimes it is placed above it; and at
other times, as in the oriental Shri Yantra, it is not portrayed at all, so that the
contemplator has to imagine it.
But constantly we find a given theme reappearing under the guise of a new
symbol: the lost object, the impossible or very difficult enterprise; or else it
comes to be equated with a variety of qualities: knowledge, love, obtaining a
desired object, etc. Alchemy was developed in two fairly well-defined stages: the
mediaeval and the Renaissance, the latter terminating by the 18th century, when
it split once again into its two original components: mysticism and chemistry.
Alchemy is a symbolic technique which, together with the desire for positive
discoveries in the field of the natural sciences, sought to materialize spiritual
truths. Instead of confronting the mythical dragon in their search for ‘treasure’,
like Cadmus, Jason and Siegfried, the alchemists sought to produce it by means of
hard work and virtue. Their work was not aimed at a simple revelation of esoteric
truths, nor was it materialistic: both purposes coalesced, however, to achieve
something which for them had the significance of the absolute. Each operation,
each detail, every subject, every instrument was a source of intellectual and

THE SYMBOLISM OF ALCHEMY

xxviii

spiritual life: they were authentic symbols. After being forgotten for a period,
alchemy was reassessed as ‘the origin of modern chemistry’, and recently
Bachelard, Silberer, Jung and others have come to see the true completeness
of its meaning, at once poetic, religious and scientific. Bachelard points out that
alchemy ‘possesses a quality of psychological precision’ (33) and that, far from
being a description of objective phenomena, it is an attempt to project human
love into the ‘heart’ of things (1). Jung insists that the experiments of the alchemists had the sole purpose—like the ancient techniques of divination, though the
former was more ambitious and persistent—of stimulating the deepest layers of
the psyche and of facilitating psychic projections in material things, or in other
words, of experiencing material phenomena as symbols which point to a complete theory of the universe and the destiny of the soul. For this reason, he says
that ‘the investigator had certain psychic experiences which appeared to him as
the particular behaviour of the chemical process’. Elsewhere he defines this as
‘chemical research which, through projection, incorporated unconscious psychic
material’, a remark which he rounds off by affirming that ‘the real nature of matter
was unknown to the alchemist. He knew it only by allusion. Searching for a
solution, he projected the unconscious into the obscurity of matter in order to
illuminate it. To explain the mystery of matter, he projected another mystery into
what was to be explained’ (32). The summa of this mystery, the deepest of secret
aspirations, was the coincidentia oppositorum, of which ‘the alchemists are as it
were the empiricists, whereas Nicholas of Cusa is its philosopher’ (33). But the
alchemist did not merely pretend to carry out his experiments; he was, indeed,
profoundly and pathetically engrossed in his search for gold. It was this interest,
together with his sense of dedication that—as in the search for the Holy Grail—
was the guarantee of final success, by dint of the virtuous practice which his
unceasing labour demanded. To discover the secret of making gold was the mark
of divine favour. Jung interprets the process psychologically as the gradual elimination of the impure factors of the spirit in the progress towards the immutable
values of eternity. But this interpretation had been fully grasped by the alchemists themselves: Michael Maier, in Symbola Aureae Mensae (1617), says that
‘chemistry encourages the investigator to meditate upon celestial blessings’. Dorn,
in Physica (1661), alludes to the relationship which must exist between the
worker and his research when he asserts: ‘You will never make Oneness out of
Otherness until you yourself have become Oneness.’ Oneness was achieved by
annihilating the desire for what is different or transitory and by fixing the mind
upon what is ‘higher’ and eternal. Famous indeed is the maxim of the alchemists:
Aurum nostrum non est aurum vulgi. This assertion—that their gold was not

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DEFINITIONS OF THE SYMBOL

ordinary gold—seems to indicate that their symbolism excluded the material
reality of the symbol, in favour of the spiritual. But, of course, it is hazardous to
talk as if the varied work of so many researchers with such differing backgrounds
was all of a piece. The demand for actual gold could be interpreted as being the
same as the longing of the doubting St. Thomas. The chosen few were well
content with the dream of the ‘subterranean Sun’ shining at the bottom of the
alchemist’s oven like the light of salvation within the depths of the soul, no matter
whether this salvation is considered to be the product of religious faith or of that
hypothetical ‘process of individuation’ into which Jung seems to have poured his
finest thoughts and sentiments about Man. Of course, beneath this concept there
lie hidden none other than the three supreme longings which seem to lead to
felicity: first, the alchemic Rebis, or the androgynous being, signifying the conjunction of opposites and the cessation of the torment caused by the separation
of the sexes, beginning with the time when the ‘spherical man’ of Plato was split
into two halves; second, the establishing of the ‘volatile’ principle, that is, the
annihilation of all change or transition, once the essence has been obtained; and,
finally, the concentrating into one central point, as a symbol of the mystical
centre of the universe—that is, of the irradiant origin (32) and of immortality.

DEFINITIONS OF THE SYMBOL

Definitions and analyses of the nature of symbols and of symbolism are all too
frequent. But we should like to study some of the more thoughtful suggestions,
keeping, as always in this work, within the limits of comparative analysis. For
the Hindu philosopher Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, symbolism is ‘the art of
thinking in images’, an art now lost to civilized Man, notably in the last three
hundred years, perhaps in consequence of the ‘catastrophic theories of Descartes’,
to quote Schneider. Coomaraswamy, then, shares the views of Fromm and of
Bayley, explicit in the titles of their respective works: The Forgotten Language
and The Lost Language of Symbolism. However, this loss—as anthropology and
psychoanalysis have shown—is limited to consciousness and not to the ‘unconscious’, which, to compensate, is perhaps now overloaded with symbolic material.
Diel considers the symbol to be ‘a precise and crystallized means of expression’, corresponding in essence to the inner life (intensive and qualitative) in
opposition to the external world (extensive and quantitative) (15). In this, he
agrees with Goethe, who asserted: ‘In the symbol, the particular represents the

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xxx

general, not as a dream, not as a shadow, but as a living and momentary revelation
of the inscrutable.’ We suggest that the distinction made by Diel between the
inner and the outer worlds is a general truth, applicable not only to the Cartesian
method: the world of res cogitans is one which recognizes extension. How is it
possible, then, for it to ignore the quantitative if the qualitative arises from
‘groups’ of quantity?
Marc Saunier, in his literary and pseudomystical style, points to an important characteristic of symbols when he states that they are ‘the synthesizing
expression of a marvellous science, now forgotten by men’, but that ‘they show
us all that has been and will be, in one immutable form’ (49). He thereby assigns
to symbols—or recognizes, rather—their didactic function as timeless objects
per se, at least in their intimate structure, for the other factors are cultural or
personal variants.
The connexion between created and Creator is also apparent in the symbol.
Jules Le Bêle recalls that ‘every created object is, as it were, a reflection of divineperfection, a natural and perceptible sign of a supernatural truth’, thus echoing
the Pauline proposition Per visibilia ad invisibilia, as well as the assertion of
Sallust that ‘The world is a symbolic object.’ Landrit insists that ‘symbolism is
the science of the relations which unite the created world with God, the material
world with the supernatural; the science of the harmonies existing between the
diverse parts of the universe (correspondences and analogies)’, operating within
the process of involution, that is, of the materiality of all things.
Here we must interpose a distinction and a clarification. Erich Fromm (23),
steering his course along the normal channels of symbolic knowledge, lays down
three kinds of symbol which are different in degree: (a) the conventional, (b) the
accidental, (c) the universal. The first kind comprises simple acceptance of a
constant affinity stripped of any optical or natural basis: for example, many signs
used in industry, in mathematics and in other fields. The second type springs
from strictly transitory conditions and is due to associations made through casual
contact. The third kind is that which we are now studying and is defined, according to Fromm, as the existence of the intrinsic relation between the symbol and
what it represents. It is obvious that this relation does not always have the same
vitality. For this reason, as we have already pointed out, it is difficult to classify
symbols with exactitude.
This language of images and emotions is based, then, upon a precise and
crystallized means of expression, revealing transcendent truths, external to Man
(cosmic order) as well as within him (thought, the moral order of things, psychic
evolution, the destiny of the soul); furthermore, it possesses a quality which,

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DEFINITIONS OF THE SYMBOL

according to Schneider, increases its dynamism and gives it a truly dramatic
character. This quality, the essence of the symbol, is its ability to express simultaneously the various aspects (thesis and antithesis) of the idea it represents (51).
Let us give a provisional explanation of this: the unconscious, or ‘place’ where
symbols live, does not recognize the inherent distinctions of contraposition; or
again, the ‘symbolic function’ appears at the precise moment when a state of
tension is set up between opposites which the consciousness cannot resolve by
itself.
For psychologists, the symbol exists almost wholly in the mind, and is then
projected outwards upon Nature, either accepting language as its being and its
form or converting being and form into dramatic characters, but it is not seen in
this way by orientalists and esoteric thinkers, who base symbolism upon the
incontrovertible equation macrocosm=microcosm. For this reason René Guénon
points out that: ‘The true basis of symbolism is, as we have said, the correspondence linking together all orders of reality, binding them one to the other, and
consequently extending from the natural order as a whole to the supernatural
order. By virtue of this correspondence, the whole of Nature is but a symbol, that
is, its true significance becomes apparent only when it is seen as a pointer which
can make us aware of supernatural or “metaphysical” truths—metaphysical in
the proper and true sense of the word, which is nothing less than the essential
function of symbolism. . . . The symbol must always be inferior to the thing
symbolized, which destroys all naturalist concepts of symbolism’ (29). This
latter idea is repeatedly stressed by Guénon, declaring that ‘what is superior can
never symbolize what is inferior, although the converse is true’ (25) (provided,
we must add, that one is dealing with a specific symbol of inversion). On the
other hand, what is superior can remind us of what is inferior.
The observations of Mircea Eliade are very interesting in this respect. He
assigns to the symbol the mission of going beyond the limitations of this ‘fragment’ which is Man (or any one of his concerns) and of integrating this ‘fragment’
into entities of wider scope: society, culture, the universe. Even if, within these
limitations, ‘an object transmuted into a symbol—as a result of its being possessed by the symbolic function—tends to unite with the All . . . this union is not
the same as a confusion, for the symbol does not restrict movement or circulation
from one level to another, and integrates all these levels and planes (of reality),
but without fusing them—that is, without destroying them’, integrating them, in
short, within a system. On the other hand, Eliade believes that if the All can
appear contained within a significant fragment, it is because each fragment restates the All: ‘A tree, by virtue of the power it manifests, may become a blessed

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xxxii

haven, without ceasing to be a tree; and if it becomes a cosmic tree it is because
what it manifests restates, point by point, what the totality manifests’ (17). Here
we have the explanation of the ‘intrinsic relation’ mentioned by Erich Fromm.
Though transmuted to another plane of reality, it consists of the essential relationship between one process and another, between one object and another, an
intimate relationship which has been defined as rhythm.

THE ‘COMMON RHYTHM’ OF SCHNEIDER

The analogy between two planes of reality is founded upon the existence in both
of a ‘common rhythm’. By rhythm we mean here not ‘perceptible order in time’,
but the coherent, determinate and dynamic factor which a character or figure
possesses and which is transmitted to the object over which it presides or from
which it emanates. This rhythm is fundamentally a movement resulting from a
certain vitality or from a given ‘number’. It shows itself as a characteristic expression or formal crystallization. Thus, between the live snake, with its sinuous
movement, and the snake appearing in inanimate relief, there may be an analogy
which is not only formal (in the design, disposition, or in the specific shape of the
animal) but also rhythmic—that is, of tone, of modality, of accent, and of expression.
Martin Buber, in his study of natural, primitive poetry, points out that
Man—whether it be megalithic Man, our contemporary Primitive, or ‘romantic’
Man seeking natural spontaneity in his relations with the cosmos—’does not
think about the moon as such, which he sees every night; for what he retains is not
the image of a wandering, luminous disc, nor that of an associated demonic being,
but that of the immediate emotive image, the lunar fluid flowing through bodies’
(quoted by Gaston Bachelard, 2). This is exactly the view of Schneider also,
pointing to the aptitude for symbolic and rhythmic thought of Primitive Man,
who could identify the movement of a wave with that of the backs of a moving
flock of sheep (51). Davy recalls that Boethius had alluded earlier to a ‘common
rhythm’ when he asserted that only those things which have the same matter in
common—meaning, in this context, the same ‘vital aspect’—can mutually transform and interchange themselves (14). Rhythm may be understood as a grouping
of distances, of quantitative values, but also as a formal pattern determined by
rhythmic numbers, that is, as spatial, formal and positional similitude.
But there is a deeper meaning to the concept of rhythm, which is precisely
that expounded by Schneider upon the basis of Primitive Man’s identification of

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THE ‘COMMON RHYTHM’ OF SCHNEIDER

one ‘living, dynamic cell’ with two or more different aspects of reality. For this
reason, he points out that: ‘The definition of the common rhythm varies considerably according to the culture in question. Primitive beings found related rhythms
particularly in the timbre of the voice, the rhythm of walking, motion, colour and
material. More advanced cultures preserve these criteria, but they give more
importance to form and material (the visual) than to the criteria of the voice and
the rhythm of walking. Instead of conceiving these related rhythms dynamically
and artistically as primitive people did, higher cultures think of them as abstract
values and order them according to a reasoned classification of a static and geometric kind. . . . Whereas Primitive Man saw that forms and phenomena are
essentially fluid, more advanced civilizations have given pride of place to the
static aspect of forms and the purely geometric outlines of shape’ (50).
Rhythms and modes, then, allow relationships to be established between
different planes of reality. While natural science establishes relationships only
between ‘horizontal’ groups of beings after the classification of Linnaeus, mystic
or symbolic science erects ‘vertical bridges’ between those objects which are
within the same cosmic rhythm, that is, objects whose position ‘corresponds’ to
that of another ‘analogous’ object on another plane of reality: for example, an
animal, a plant or a colour. According to Schneider, this idea of correspondences
comes from belief in the indissoluble unity of the universe. Thus, in megalithic
and astrobiological cultures, the most disparate phenomena are brought together,
by virtue of their having a ‘common rhythm’; ‘hence one finds that such elements
as the following are correlated: musical or cultural instruments and implements of
work; animals, gods, and heavenly bodies; the seasons, the points of the compass, and material symbols; rites, colours and offices; parts of the human body
and phases in human life’ (51). Symbolism is what might be called a magnetic
force, drawing together phenomena which have the same rhythm and even allowing them to interchange. Schneider deduces some important ontological conclusions from this: The apparent multiplicity of outward forms spreading out over
concentric planes is deceptive, for, in the last resort, all the phenomena of the
universe can be reduced to a few basic rhythmic forms, grouped and ordered by
the passage of time’ (51). He also draws gnostical conclusions: ‘The symbol is the
ideological manifestation of the mystic rhythm of creation and the degree of truth
attributed to the symbol is an expression of the respect Man is able to accord to
this mystical rhythm’ (50). The rhythmic link between the world outside Man
and the physiology of Man is demonstrated by Schneider’s affirming that Primitive Man and his animal-totem—though different beings—are joined in a common rhythm, whose basic element is the cry-symbol (51). Jung has amplified the

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psychological implications of this concept, demonstrating the deep and constant
relationship between rhythm and emotion (31).
At this point we must comment upon the conclusion implicit in Schneider’s
thesis that, in spite of the multiplicity of forms which phenomena seem to take
on, there is a lack of clearly independent forms in the universe. Indeed, morphology in its systematic analysis of forms has found that only a few are fundamental:
this is particularly true of biology, in which the ovoid is a basic form from which
the sphere, its segment and many intermediate forms are derived. In fact,
symbological analyses often seem to offset a certain narrowing of scope by an
added richness in depth, for the few basic situations that do exist appear under
varying, though secondary, guises. Similarly, the only ‘original’ numbers are the
first decade of the Greek system or the numbers up to twelve in the oriental
system. The rest come under the rule of ‘multiplicity’, which is merely a reordering of the basic series. Besides, the place of symbolism is within the archetypal
pattern of each being, each form, each rhythm. Within this archetypal pattern,
thanks to the principle of concentration, all like beings can be presented as one
being. And in addition, by virtue of this oneness, the predominant rhythm transmutes all that might appear to be separate; so that, to give an example, not only
do all dragons stand for The Dragon, but any symbolic daub resembling a dragon
is also The Dragon. And we shall see that this is a consequence of the principle of
‘sufficient identity’.

JUNG’S ARCHETYPE

In the equation macrocosm=microcosm there is the implied possibility of explaining the former by the latter, or vice versa. The ‘common rhythm’ of Schneider
belongs rather to the tendency to explain Man by reference to the world, while
Jung’s ‘archetype’ tends to explain the world by reference to Man. This is logical,
since the archetype does not stem from forms or from figures or objective beings,
but from images within the human spirit, within the turbulent depths of the
unconscious. The archetype is, in the first place, an epiphany, that is, the revelation of the latent by way of the recondite: vision, dream, fantasy, myth. These
spiritual manifestations are not, for Jung, substitutes for living things—are not
lifeless effigies; they are the fruits of the inner life perpetually flowing out from
the unconscious, in a way which can be compared with the gradual unfolding of
creation. Just as creation determines the burgeoning of beings and objects, so

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JUNG’S ARCHETYPE

psychic energy flowers into an image, an entity marking the true borders between
the informal and the conceptual, between darkness and light.
Jung uses the word ‘archetype’ to designate those universal symbols which
possess the greatest constancy and efficiency, the greatest potentiality for psychic evolution, and which point away from the inferior towards the superior. In
On Psychic Energy, he specifically says: ‘The psychological mechanism that
transforms energy is the symbol.’ But, in addition, he appears to give a different
meaning to the archetype, linking it strictly with the structure of the psyche,
when he distinguishes it from the symbol in so far as its ontic significance goes.
To clarify this, let us quote some of Jung’s own observations: ‘The archetypes
are the numinous, structural elements of the psyche and possess a certain autonomy and specific energy which enables them to attract, out of the conscious
mind, those contents which are best suited to themselves. The symbols act as
transformers, their function being to convert libido from a “lower” into a “higher”
form. . . . It was manifestly not a question of inherited ideas, but of an inborn
disposition to produce parallel images, or rather of identical psychic structures
common to all men, which I later called the archetypes of the collective unconscious. They correspond to the concept of the “pattern of behaviour” in biology’
(31). ‘The archetypes do not represent anything external, non-psychic, although
they do of course owe the concreteness of their imagery to impressions received
from without. Rather, independently of, and sometimes in direct contrast to, the
outward forms they may take, they represent the life and essence of a nonindividual psyche’ (33). That is to say, there is an intermediate realm between the
oneness of the individual soul and its solitude, and the variety of the universe:
between the res cogitans and the res extensa of Descartes, and that realm is the
image of the world in the soul and of the soul in the world, in other words, the
‘place’ of symbolism ‘working’ in areas prepared by the archetypes—eternally
present, the ‘problem being whether the consciousness perceives them or not’
(32).
In his Essais de psychologie analytique, Jung again defines the nature of the
archetypes as the ready-made systems of both images and emotions (that is, of
rhythms). They are inherited with the brain-structure—indeed, they are its psychic aspect. They are, on the one hand, the most powerful of instinctive prejudices, and on the other, the most efficient aids imaginable towards instinctive
adaptations. Jung points out that the idea of such ‘image-guides’ of ancestral
origin had already appeared in Freud, who called them ‘primitive fantasies’. Jolan
de Jacobi, in her work on Jung’s psychology (30), says that Jung took the expression from St. Augustine, who used it in a sense which is very similar to the

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platonic ‘idea’, that is, the primordial reality from which the realities of existence
arise as echoes and fragments. Archetypes are like all-embracing parables: their
meaning is only partially accessible; their deepest significance remains a secret
which existed long before Man himself and which reaches out far beyond Man.
Jolan de Jacobi identifies symbols for practical purposes with the archetypes,
mentioning as examples of the latter: the ‘night sea-crossing’, the ‘whale-dragon’,
figures such as the prince, the child, the magician or the unknown damsel. We
cannot further debate Jung’s concepts without going more deeply into his psychological and anthropological theory, which would be beyond the scope of this
work. To return to the relationship between, or identity of, the symbol and the
archetype, we might say that the latter is the mythical and merely human aspect
of the former, whereas a strict system of symbols could exist even without
human consciousness, since it is founded upon a cosmic order determined by
those ‘vertical’ relationships which we mentioned when commenting upon the
‘common rhythm’ of Schneider. In short, it is a synthesis which transmutes
systems of vibrations, echoing one basic and original ‘model’, into a spiritual
idiom expressed usually in the numerical series.

A N A LY S I S O F T H E S Y M B O L

The basic ideas and suppositions which allow us to conceive of ‘symbolism’,
together with the creation and vitality of each symbol, are the following:
(a) Nothing is meaningless or neutral: everything is significant. (b) Nothing is
independent, everything is in some way related to something else. (c) The quantitative becomes the qualitative in certain essentials which, in fact, precisely
constitute the meaning of the quantity. (d) Everything is serial. (e) Series are
related one to another as to position, and the components of each series are
related as to meaning. This serial characteristic is a basic phenomenon which is as
true of the physical world (in its range of colours, of sounds, of textures, of
landscapes, etc.) as of the spiritual world (in its virtues, vices, humours, feelings,
etc.). Factors which account for serial arrangement are: limitation; the integration
of discontinuity and continuity; proper order; graduation; numbering; the inner
dynamism of the component elements; polarity; symmetrical or asymmetrical
equilibrium; and the concept as a whole.
If we take any ‘symbol’—for example, the sword, or the colour red—and
analyse its structure, we shall see that it can be split up into both its real and its
symbolic components. First, we find the object in itself, in isolation; in the

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A N A LY S I S O F T H E S Y M B O L

second place we find the object linked to its utilitarian function, to its concrete or
factual reality in the three-dimensional world—directly, in the case of the sword;
or indirectly, giving colour, for example to a cloak, in the case of the colour red; in
the third place, we find what enables the object to be considered as a symbol: that
structure which we have termed ‘symbolic function’, or the dynamic tendency of

Engraving in the Historiarum liber of Herodotus (Paris, 1510
with the important symbols of the primordial waters,
ship, woman, bees and phoenix
the object to link up with its corresponding equivalents in all analogous series,
nevertheless principally tending to show the particular metaphysical meaning. In
this symbolic function we can still distinguish between the symbolic meaning and

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xxxviii

the general meaning, the latter being requently ambivalent and charged with allusions whose variety, however, is never chaotic, for it is marshalled along the coordinate line of a ‘common rhythm’.
Thus, the sword, iron, fire, the colour red, the god Mars, the rocky mountain,
are all interrelated because they are oriented along one ‘symbolic line’. They all
imply the longing for ‘spiritual determination and physical annihilation’, which is
the profoundest meaning of their symbolic functions; but in addition they are
joined together—they beckon to each other, one might say—by virtue of the
inner affinity that binds all these phenomena, which are, in truth, concomitants of
one essential cosmic modality.
In consequence, apart from this network of relations linking up every kind of
object (physical, metaphysical, mental, real and unreal in so far as they have
‘psychological reality’), the symbolic order is established by a general correlation
between the material and the spiritual (the visible and the invisible) and by the
unfolding of their meanings. These components, which account for the ‘mode of
being’ of the object, may be complementary or disparate; in the case of the latter
an ambivalent symbol is produced. Schneider mentions the flute as an example
(50). The flute in form is phallic and masculine, whereas its sound is feminine. It
is an instrument which stands in curious, inverse relation to the drum, with its
deep masculine tones and its rounded, feminine shapes. One indispensable aspect
of the relationship between abstract forms (geometric or biomorphic, intellectual
or artistic) and objects is the mutual influence they have upon each other. Let us
analyse another symbol: water, for example. Its predominant characteristics are:
(i) it fertilizes; (ii) it purifies; (iii) it dissolves. These three qualities have so much
in common that their relationship can be expressed in a variety of ways, although
one constant factor always emerges: the suspension of form—that is, the lack of
any fixed form (fluidity)—is bound up with the functions of fertilization or
regeneration of the material, living world on the one hand, and with the purification or regeneration of the spiritual world on the other. It is this bond which helps
to explain the vast symbolism of water, appearing in the midst of solid areas of
the cosmos, with the power of destroying the corrupt and of initiating a new
cycle of life—the latter meaning is one that extends to the zodiacal signs of
Aquarius and Pisces, and confirms the words of the Psalm: ‘I am poured out like
water, and all my bones are out of joint’ (Psalm xxii, 14).
These basic concepts, then, are the justification and the fundament of the
symbolic order of things. Jung, however, working within the framework of his
symbolic logic, does not accord them the same priority. Speaking of the libido, or
vital energy, he says that we have the following possibilities of symbolization: (i)

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SYMBOLIC ANALOGY

Analogous comparison (that is, a comparison between two objects or forces on
the same co-ordinate of a ‘common rhythm’), as, for example, fire and the sun. (ii)
The objective, causative comparison (which is based upon the properties of the
symbolic object itself), as, for example, the sun as life-giver. (iii) The subjective,
causative comparison (which functions like the second group, except that it
immediately identifies the inner force with some symbol or some object possessing a relevant symbolic function), as, for example, the phallus or snake. (iv) The
functional comparison, based not upon symbolic objects themselves but upon
their activity, informing the image with dynamism and drama; for example, the
libido fecundates like the bull, is dangerous like the boar, etc. The relevance to
myth of this last group is self-evident (31).

SYMBOLIC ANALOGY

According to the Tabula Smaragdina, the threefold principle of the analogy
between the outer and the inner world is: (i) the common source of both worlds;
(ii) the influence of the psychic upon the physical; (iii) the influence of the
physical world upon the spiritual. But the analogy lies not only in the relation
between the inner and the outer world, but also in the relation between the various
phenomena of the physical world. Material or formal resemblance is only one of
the many possible analogies, for analogy can also exist in connexion with function. At times, the act of choosing reveals a basic analogy between the inner
motives and the ultimate goal. Let us quote some examples of analogy by way of
clarification. From religious literature we learn that the Order of St. Bruno preferred precipitous and remote places for their communities; the Benedictines
would choose mountain-heights; the Cistercians, pleasant valleys; and the Jesuits
of St. Ignatius, the cities. For those conversant with the character of these foundations it is almost unnecessary to point out that their very choice of situation
implies a landscape-symbolism, or that, looked at in another way, the places
selected are eloquent proof of the guiding spirit behind each of these communities.
The Pigmies of Equatorial Africa believe that, in the rainbow, God expresses
His desire to communicate with them. This is why, as soon as the rainbow
appears, they take up their bows and shoot at it. . . . (17). The incomparable
beauty of this striking image tells us more about analogy than any analysis can.
Other aspects of the same kind of thing may be seen in certain superstitions, such
as the belief of many races that by undoing the bolts, locks and latches of the

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home during the birth of an infant, they can facilitate its coming into the world
(21). One more analogy: the process of creation—which oriental theogonies explain as both progressive multiplication and as division, since all things derive
from unity—has its analogous counterpart in the related myths of the carving up
of the body of Osiris in Egypt, of Prajapati in India and of Dionysos in Greece
(40). As examples of formal analogy or resemblance, we quote four symbolic
ways of referring to the Centre: the Hindu Wheel of Transformations in the centre
of which is a space which is either quite unadorned or else filled with just the
symbol or image of a deity; or the Chinese Pi, a disc of jade with a hole in the
centre; or the idea that the Pole star, piercing the sky, points the way along which
the merely temporal world must move in order to rid itself of the restrictions of
time and space; or, finally, in the West, the Round Table with the Holy Grail
standing at its centre point. We can see in all these very different objects an almost
obsessive repetition of the image of a duality: the centre contrasted with the
circumference, as a twofold image of the ineffable origin of the world of phenomena. But there is one legend which opens up great possibilities in analogy, for it
contains both formal analogy (resemblance) and functional analogy. It is the myth
of the cursed hunter, who leaves the Mass just when the Consecrated Form is
being raised aloft, to go hunting. One can see delineated here a spiral movement
which ‘repeats’ the creation of the physical world. The soul abandons the centre
(the circular form of the Host) and leaves for the outer part of the wheel, where
movement is swifter (symbolized by the endless chase after an unattainable
quarry).
Analogy, as a unifying and ordering process, appears continuously in art,
myth and poetry. Its presence always betrays a mystic force at work, the need to
reunite what has been dispersed. Let us quote two cases—one of art criticism, the
other literary but bearing upon the first—which have analogy as their sole foundation. Cohn-Wiener says ‘Reliefs enable us to appreciate that there (in Babylon)
clothes do not emphasize the shape of the body, as in Egypt: they hide it, in the
way that murals conceal the rough marks of a building.’ Théophile Gautier characterized Burgos cathedral as: ‘Vast as a stone pyramid and delicate as a woman’s
curl’, and Verlaine called the Middle Ages (which had created this cathedral):
‘Vast and delicate’.
We have to persist in our study of analogy, for it is perhaps the corner-stone
of the whole symbolic edifice. If we take two parallel actions, as expressed in the
phrases: ‘The sun overcomes the darkness’, and ‘The hero slays the monster’,
there is a correspondence between the two phrases (and the two actions). We
have to conceive of each one as a three-part series: subject, verb, predicate. There

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SYMBOL AND ALLEGORY

is an analogy in function: both subjects, both verbs, both predicates are interrelated. In addition, as we have chosen two actions with a ‘common rhythm’, the
parts of the series could be replaced or interchanged without causing any break or
confusion in the system: we could equally well say. ‘The sun slays the monster’
or ‘The hero overcomes the darkness’. To take another example, in the parallel
expressions: ‘The sun shines with golden brilliance’ and ‘Gold shines with golden
brilliance’, the common predicate allows not only the interchange but also the
identical equation of subject. From the intermediate phrase: ‘The sun shines like
gold’ or ‘Gold shines like the sun’, comes the irrefutable conclusion: ‘The sun—
in so far as its brilliance is golden—is gold.’ This equation occurs not because of
the intrinsic value of its components but because of the significance of their
position, for the relationship is concerned only with the dynamic or, in other
words, symbolic, position of objects. This identical equation, then, is what we
have called ‘the principle of sufficient identity’ and what we consider to be the
core of symbolism. Clearly, this identity is ‘sufficient’ (that is, sufficient for
symbolic purposes) from the very moment it is created in the very heart of the
dynamic potential of the symbol. When their functions coincide and reveal their
allegiance to one essence, both objects, although different on the existential plane,
become one on the symbolic plane and therefore interchangeable; they are now—
to use the scholastic terms—the coniunctio (integrating conjunction) of what was
formerly distinctio. This is why symbolic technique is a matter of progressively
ordering such identities within genuine common rhythms. Also, for the above
reasons, the symbolic image is not an ‘example’ (an external and hypothetical
relation between two objects or two correspondences) but an internal analogy (a
necessary and constant relationship).

S Y M B O L A N D A L L E G O RY — S Y M B O L A N D A RT I S T I C E X P R E S S I O N

As a general rule, writers on the subject distinguish in essence between the symbol and the allegory. Bachelard (3) defines the latter as ‘a lifeless image, a concept
which has become over-rationalized’. For Jung (30), allegory is a limited kind of
symbol reduced to the rôle of a pointer, designating only one of the many potential series of dynamic meanings. Again, the difference between allegory and symbol may be understood by reference to the hypothesis of Wirth, for whom the
essential function of the symbol is to explore the unknown and—paradoxically—
to communicate with the incommunicable, the partial discovery of these unfathomable truths being achieved through symbols (59). Diel illustrates the difference

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xlii

between allegory and symbol with a vivid example: ‘Zeus hurls a thunderbolt,
which on the meteorological plane is a straightforward allegory. This allegory is
transmuted into a symbol when the act acquires a psychological meaning, Zeus
becoming the symbol of the spirit and the thunderbolt symbolizing the sudden
appearance of an illuminating thought (intuition) which is supposed to come
from the god himself’ (15). This cipher is a semeiotic expression, a conventional
abbreviation for a known constant. Allegory is seen therefore as the mechanism of
the symbol, in which the chief characteristic of the latter is devitalized and turned
into a mere cipher which, because it is dressed up in traditional, symbolic garb,
may even appear to be alive.
Allegories have often been created quite consciously with theatrical or literary ends in mind. Cesare Ripa’s Iconologia is a vast thesaurus of personifications
and allegories. Mythological dictionaries provide many examples in which realistic portrayal deprives them of symbolic value. Thus, according to Cochin, Cruelty is depicted as a fearful hag smothering a child in its cradle and laughing in the
firelight; and Dusk as a youth with a star on his forehead and the black wings of
a bat, fleeing beneath a veil representing night. Even more mechanical are the
allegories representing science, the arts or industry. Cosmography is usually
shown as an old woman; she wears a blue cape studded with stars while her dress
is earth-coloured. In one hand she holds an astrolabe, in the other a compass. At
her feet are the globes of the earth and the heavens. These examples prove that the
elements of allegory are symbols which are in no way distinguishable from true
symbols. Their function alone is modified and inverted, for, instead of indicating
metaphysical and spiritual principles—instead of possessing an emotional content—they are artificial creations designating physical realities and nothing else.
But in certain circumstances the components of allegory can revert to their
symbolic state, that is, if the unconscious seizes upon them as such, overlooking
their semeiotic and representational ends. Hence we may speak of an intermediate zone of images consciously created, even if calling upon ancestral memories,
perhaps through the medium of dreams or visions. We find an example of this in
the playing-cards of the Tarot, the compositions of which seem to be carried out
according to a criterion analogous to that of many allegories or mythical figures.
The only difference is that their mysteriousness places them beyond the reach of
reason and enables them to act as stimuli to the unconscious. The same thing
frequently happens in art: symbols have come to be placed within conscious,
traditional and dogmatic systems, but their inner life still pulses beneath this
rationalized order, even becoming audible from time to time. In ornamentation,
strict rhythm rather than symbolic rhythm is at work. The inner force of the

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A P P R E C I AT I O N A N D I N T E R P R E TAT I O N

rhythm is conveyed to the observer who is moved by it according to his nature,
but it is rare for even the suspicion of a psychological or cosmic significance to
rise to the surface of his consciousness, although he may perceive its dynamic
essence. We have read with interest René Alleau’s recent work, De la Nature des
symboles, and find the distinctions he draws between symbol and synthema
interesting from a formalistic standpoint but of less help than hindrance towards
the proper understanding of the spiritual and psychological meaning of symbols.
The same thing occurs with artistic expression, which may be related to
symbolization but must not be confused with it. Artistic expression is a continuous, flowing, causal and direct relation between the inspiration and the final
representation, which is both the means and the end of the expressive process.
Symbolization is discontinuous, static, indirect, transcending the object in which
it is enshrined. In music and in painting, one can easily distinguish between the
expressive and the symbolic factors. But since we cannot here go into such
particulars, we shall confine ourselves to determining the parts played by these
factors in some general artistic tendencies. Thus expressionism, confronted with
the material world of objects, tends to destroy them and to submerge them in a
swirling stream of psychic forces, overwhelming the expressive figures and, with
its power, obliging them to become part of a system of free rhythms. Symbolism,
on the other hand, while isolating each form and each figure, attracts, as if with
magnetic lines of force, all that has ‘common rhythm’, that is, all that has natural
affinity. It thus reveals that the profound meaning behind all series of symbolic
objects is the very cause of their appearance in the world of phenomena. Concerning the relationship of the art-form with the author, let us refer again to the
concept of endopathy, anticipated by Dante in his Canzoniere: ‘He who would
paint a figure, if he cannot become that figure, cannot portray it.’ This is a further
affirmation of ‘common rhythm’, like the earlier observation of Plotinus that the
eye could not see the sun unless it became to some degree a sun itself and vice
versa. In symbolist doctrine, there is never any question of mere relation between
cause and effect but rather of ‘mutual causality’. In symbolism, everything has
some meaning, everything has a purpose which at times is obvious, and at others
less so, and everything leaves some trace or ‘signature’ which is open to investigation and interpretation.
Perhaps a deeper conception than the scientific ones is that of Sufic mysticism. Henry Corbin, in Creative Imagination in the Sufism of Ibn ‘Arabi (London,
1969), referring to the idea of the ta’wil professed in Sufism, states that it is
essentially a method of symbolic understanding of the world, based on the transmutation of everything visible into symbols. He adds that this is practicable

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through the ‘intuition of an essence or person in an Image which partakes neither
of universal logic nor of sense perception, and which is the only means of signifying what is to be signified’. Sufism admits an intermediate kingdom (an
‘interworld’, as it is called) between phenomenic reality and logical or ideal reality. This interworld is the pure truth of all things, but elevated to a magicomystic,
angelic position. In other words, according to this doctrine, the Oneness, before
reaching material realities, multiplies itself into other realities, which must perforce be objects of amazed contemplation. (These other realities are material
realities which have been transformed and appear in the function of their dominant quality, their spiritual ‘office’.) Asín Palacios, in his Escatología musulmana
en la Divina Commedia, proved the connexion between Dantean idealism and the
Islamic study of the contemplative life.

A P P R E C I AT I O N A N D I N T E R P R E TAT I O N

The Problem of Interpretation In the 19th century, mythology and symbolism
were much discussed, particularly in connexion with the problem of interpretation. Max Müller derived the majority of myths from solar phenomena, in particular Dawn representing victory over Darkness, while Schwartz and his school
gave pride of place to the storm (35). Soon another interpretative approach came
into being, in which all celestial and meteorological images came to be considered
as secondary to mental and spiritual symbols. So, for example, Karl O. Müller, in
his Kleine deutsche Schriften, remarked that, essentially, the myth of Orion had
nothing astral about it, and that only subsequently did it come to be placed in the
heavens. This process of projecting the worldly into the celestial sphere, in
particular into the astral, is known as catasterism. The arrival of the psychological thesis, however, did not invalidate the arguments for celestial provenance—
such as those put forward by Dupuis in his L’Origine de tous les cultes—and this
is yet a further proof that the symbol is plurisignal, a term first used by Philip
Wheelwright. Basically, all these problems of ‘origin’ are of very secondary importance. From the point of view of symbolist tradition, there is no question of
priority, only of simultaneity: all phenomena are parallel and related. Interpretations only indicate the starting-point of the interpreter, not the causal or prior
condition within the system itself.
These inevitable qualifications inherent in symbolic interpretation are underlined by Gaston Bachelard in his prologue to Diel (15), when he says, not without
irony: ‘Are you a rationalist historian? You will find in myth an account of

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famous dynasties. Are you a linguist? Words tell all, and all legends are formed
around sayings. One more corrupted word—one more god! Olympus is a grammar controlling the functions of the gods. Are you a sociologist? Then in myth
you will find the means by which, in primitive society, the leader is turned into a
god.’ The only all-embracing interpretation which would seem to fit the original
meaning of myths and symbols is the one that takes this meaning right back to the
metaphysical source, to the dialectic of creation. Louis Renou praises Zimmer’s
‘intuitive appreciation of the metaphysical approach to the myth’, which is to
say, his fidelity to his subject, an approach embracing both the philosophical and
the religious aspects (60). But argument about all the possible interpretations
dates not from our times, nor from recent times, but from Antiquity. Seznec
recalls that the ancients evolved theories about the origins of the gods, based upon
interpretations which can be summed up as expressions of three essential attitudes: (a) myths are more or less modified accounts of historical facts, of people
raised to the rank of gods, as happened in historical time with Alexander the
Great; (b) myths express the conflicts inherent in the natural world, for which
reason gods had to be supernatural, cosmic symbols; (c) myths are the fabulous
expression of philosophical or moral ideas. We would rather say that myths, and
a great number of other archetypal symbols, are all three things at once. Or better
still, that they are concrete, historical realities, that they are at once cosmic and
natural; moral and psychological realities are merely restatements on three planes
(history, the physical world, the psychic world) of the same basic ideas.
Euhemerism, a system which gives preference to historical interpretation, does
not, however, in any way affect the nature of symbol or myth, because, as we
have already said, the simultaneous occurrence of an abstract and general manifestation with its materialization in a moment of space-time not only implies no
contradiction, but actually is a proof of their true existence on both planes.
In the world of symbols, totemistic interpretation does no more than demonstrate relationships, without elucidating meanings: it forges connecting-links between beings endowed with ‘common rhythm’, but it does not indicate the meaning of these beings. To say that Athena was the nocturnal owl, the Magna Mater
a lioness or Artemis a she-bear, is to say nothing about the meaning of the gods
nor about their respective animal-symbols. The analysis of meaning is the only
thing which can lead to the reconstruction of the inner structure of each symbol.
Similarly, realism, which sees in a fable merely a different version of the original
event or an amalgam of varied elements, offers only a secondary explanation of
the problem of ‘origins’ without attempting to go deeply into the raison d’être of
the entity. To say that the image of the bat gave birth to the idea of the hippogryph,

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the chimaera and the dragon, is to give the minimal idea of the expressive and
symbolic value of such fabulous animals; only an analysis of their context, their
behaviour and their purpose can bring us close to the myth of the symbol with its
considerable capacity for dynamic transfiguration. Krappe is speaking in terms
of realism when he says that the well-known tradition of associating the tree with
the serpent can be traced ‘quite simply to the fact (easily verifiable in all countries
where snakes live) that these reptiles generally make their holes at the foot of a
tree’ (35). Even if we grant the accuracy of this explanation, what could it tell us
about the intensity of this myth, with its powerful symbolism expressing Biblical temptation? Clearly, symbolism is something quite different. It is the magnetism which reality—whether it be simple (the object) or complex (the relationship)—is seen to exert by virtue of its spiritual potential within the cosmic
system. The snake and the tree are related analogously in their outlines, in the
resemblance of the reptile to the roots of a tree, and in the relationship between
the tree and the erect snake on the one hand, and the columns of Boaz and Jachin
on the other: a binary image of the essential paradox of life—the paradox of Good
and Evil. While the tree raises its branches to the sun as if in an ecstasy of
adoration, the snake is poised ready to strike. This is the essence of the symbol
and not the fact that snakes nest at the foot of a tree. What is more, applying the
traditional law that facts never explain anything but are the mere consequenc