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 Pan in Arkadia

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Lyssa
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PostSubject: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:10 am

Quote :
"6000 feet beyond man and time" [Nietzsche]

Putting atleast 3 centuries between the current time and oneself is how Nietzsche believed one would lose their myopic perspective of the self and the world.

Arkadia is the edge of the cross-roads between the village and the wilderness. Pan is a liminal figure who is as pastoral as he is panic-attacking. He is marked by the noontime stillness as he plays his flute, which has a quality of a timelessness to it. In the arts, Arkadia was the symbol of the golden age virtuosity, when men lived akin to the gods, "a harmony with nature".

This renaturalization of man is a dire imperative given the travesty of J.-Xt.;

Nietzsche wrote:
"That entire labor of the ancient world in vain: I have no words to express my feeling over something so atrocious. — And considering that its labor was preliminary labor, that the foundation for a labor of millennia had just been laid with granite self-confidence, the entire meaning of the ancient world in vain!... Wherefore Greeks? Wherefore Romans? — All the prerequisites for a learned culture, all the scientific methods, were already there, the great, the incomparable art of reading well had already been established — this prerequisite for a cultural tradition, for a unity of knowledge; natural science, in union with mathematics and mechanics, was on the best of all paths — the sense for facts, the last and most valuable of all the senses, had its schools, its already centuries old tradition! Is this understood?

Everything essential had been discovered in order to set the work into motion — the methods, one must repeat it ten times, are the essential thing, also that which is opposed the longest by laziness and custom. What we have won back for ourselves today with inexpressible self-mastery — for we all still have the bad instincts, the Christian ones, somewhere in our bodies — the free view of reality, the careful hand, patience and seriousness in the smallest thing, the whole integrity of knowledge — they were already there! Already more than two thousand years ago! And, in addition, good, fine taste and tact! Not as brain training! Not as “German” education in company with loutish manners! But as body, as gesture, as instinct — as reality, in a word... All in vain! Overnight nothing but a memory! — Greeks! Romans!

The nobility of instinct, of taste, the methodical investigation, the genius for organization and administration, the faith in, the will to a future for man, the great Yes to all things, visible as the imperium Romanum, visible to all senses, the grand style not merely art but turned into reality, truth, life... And not overwhelmed by a natural event overnight! Not trampled down by Teutons and other clodhoppers! But ruined by crafty, sneaky, invisible, anemic vampires! Not vanquished — just sucked dry! ... Hidden vengefulness, petty envy become master! Everything wretched, suffering from itself, afflicted with bad feelings, the whole ghetto-world of the soul suddenly on top! — — One need only read some Christian rabble-rouser such as Saint Augustine to see, to smell, what kind of unsavory fellows came to the top thereby. One would be deceiving oneself utterly if one presupposed any lack of intelligence among the leaders of the Christian movement — oh, they are clever, clever to the point of holiness, the se Church fathers! What they lack is something quite different. Nature has slighted them — she forgot to give then a modest dowry of respectable, of reasonable, of clean instincts... Between us, they are not even men..." [Daybreak, 59]

The renaturalization of man and morality means saying, not just "society" - but a "culture complex", not just "sociology" - but a "theory of forms of domination."
It means High Definitions.
Refining all that we have inherited.
Unlearning all our scaffolds of consolations.
Becoming bolder. And more daring.

"Et in Arcadia Ego" - There is Death in Arcadia too.

Reality cannot be swept under some carpet, nor is self-deception of feigning amnesia to the world as it is a mark of the noble mind. You cannot wish away the modern dis/ease. But, as the paralyzing power of panic attacks grip us, the laughing satyr also liberates us through the vertigo of having stared into the abyss.

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It implants an urge to create our own meaning, to shape our world;

Nietzsche wrote:
"That lies are necessary in order to live is itself part of the terrifying and questionable character of existence.

"Life ought to inspire confidence": the task thus imposed is tremendous.

To solve it, man must be a liar by nature, he must above all be an artist.
And he is one: metaphysics, religion, morality, science---all of them only products of his will to art, to lie, to flight from "truth," to negation of "truth."

This ability itself, thanks to which he violates reality by means of lies, this artistic ability of man par excellence---he has it in common with everything that is. He himself is after all a piece of reality, truth, nature: how should he not also be a piece of genius in lying!

In these moments in which man was deceived, in which he duped himself, in which he believes in life: oh how enraptured he feels! What delight! What a feeling of power! How much artists' triumph in the feeling of power!--- Man has once again become master of "material"---master of truth!--- And whenever man rejoices, he is always the same in his rejoicing: he rejoices as an artist, he enjoys himself as power, he enjoys the lie as his form of power..."

but also,

Nietzsche wrote:
"Today we are inclined to make the opposite judgement (which could itself be just as mistaken), namely, that ideas are worse seductresses than the senses, for all their cold, anaemic appearance and not even despite that appearance - they always lived off the 'blood' of the philosopher; they always drained his senses and even, if you believe it, his 'heart'. These old philosophers were heartless: philosophizing was always a kind of vampirism. When considering such figures, including even Spinoza, don't you feel something deeply enigmatic and strange? Don't you see the spectacle unfolding, this steady growing paler - this ever more ideally construed desensualization? Don't you sense in the background some long-concealed blood-sucker who starts with the senses and finally leaves behind and spares only bones and rattling? - I refer to categories, formulas, words (for, forgive me, what remained of Spinoza, amor intellectualis dei, is mere rattle, nothing more! What is amor; what deus, when they are missing every drop of blood?
In sum: all philosophical idealism until now was something like an illness, except where, as in Plato's case, it was the caution of an overabundant and dangerous health; the fear of overpowerful senses; the shrewdness of a shrewd Socratic. - Maybe we moderns are not healthy enough to need Plato's idealism? And we don't fear the senses because - "[JW, 372]


There is a fine line between apotheosis and anaemia that can get easily butchered..., but it is even more crucial today, we recover that spirit of the Artist that is not afraid, nor hesitant, in sketching out the world with bold strokes;

Nietzsche wrote:
"Mature epochs that have the right to be proud of their humanity are still so full of fear, so full of superstitious fear of the “cruel and wild beast” (although the pride these more humane ages feel is actually caused by their mastery of this beast), that even obvious truths remain unspoken for centuries, as if by agreement, because they have the appearance of helping bring the wild beast back to life after it had finally been killed off. Perhaps I am taking a risk in allowing a truth like this to escape: let other people recapture it and make it drink the “milk of pious reflection” until it lies quiet and forgotten in its old corner. – People should rethink their ideas about cruelty and open up their eyes; they should finally learn impatience, so that big, fat, presumptuous mistakes like this will stop wandering virtuously and audaciously about.

An example of this is the mistaken ideas about tragedy that have been nurtured by both ancient and modern philosophers. This is my claim: almost everything we call “higher culture” is based on the spiritualization and deepening of cruelty. The “wild animal” has not been killed off at all; it is alive and well, it has just – become divine. Cruelty is what constitutes the painful sensuality of tragedy.

We clearly need to drive out the silly psychology of the past; the only thing this psychology was able to teach about cruelty was that it originated from the sight of another’s suffering. But there is abundant, overabundant pleasure in your own suffering too, in making yourself suffer, – and wherever anyone lets himself be talked into self-denial in the religious sense, or self-mutilation (as the Phoenicians or ascetics did), or into desensitization, disembowelment or remorse in general, or into puritanical penitential spasms, vivisections of conscience or a Pascalian sacrifizio dell’intelletto – wherever this is the case, he is secretly being tempted and urged on by his cruelty, by that dangerous thrill of self-directed cruelty. Finally, people should bear in mind that even the knower, by forcing his spirit to know against its own inclination and, often enough, against the wishes of his heart (in other words, to say “no” when he would like to affirm, love, worship), this knower will prevail as an artist of cruelty and the agent of its transfiguration. Even treating something in a profound or thorough manner is a violation, a wanting-to-hurt the fundamental will of the spirit, which constantly tends towards semblances and surfaces, – there is a drop of cruelty even in every wanting-to-know." [BGE, 229]

"Knowing is a Creating";

Nietzsche wrote:
"Tremendous self-examination: becoming conscious of oneself, not as individuals but as mankind.

The belief that the world as it ought to be is, really exists, is a belief of the unproductive who do not desire to create a world as it ought to be. They posit it as already available, they seek ways and means of reaching it. "Will to truth"--as the impotence of the will to create.

To know that something is thus and thus, To act so that something becomes thus and thus: Antagonism in the degree of power in different natures.

It is a measure of the degree of strength of will to what extent one can do without meaning in things, to what extent one can endure to live in a meaningless world because one organizes a small portion of it oneself.

The philosophical objective outlook can therefore be a sign that will and strength are small. For strength organizes what is close and closest; "men of knowledge," who desire only to ascertain what is, are those who cannot fix anything as it ought to be. Artists, an intermediary species: they at least fix an image of that which ought to be; they are productive, to the extent that they actually alter and transform; unlike men of knowledge, who leave everything as it is.

Nihilism as a normal phenomenon can be a symptom of increasing strength or of increasing weakness:
What does science mean in regard to both possibilities?
1. As a sign of strength and self-control, as being able to do without healing, comforting worlds of illusion;
2. as undermining, dissecting, disappointing, weakening." [WTP, 585]


We need no worlds or words of illusion.

It is not enough to just "cope" and "survive" through the labyrinth of modernity; it is a question of your self-love. How much can you project into the future than mere coping, mere getting-by?

Life is self-preservation, but life is About excess and flourishing and expansion in all directions.

Becoming aware of the dis/ease of modernity is a means, but one facet,, it is not the ends in itself. It is not enough to merely disentangle yourself from the times, but fine-tuning for high definitions and more sharper pixels requires a little estrangement from the times and from ourselves And from our history;

Nietzsche wrote:
"There is great advantage to be gained in distantly estranging ourselves from our age and for once being driven as it were away from its shores back on to the ocean of the world-outlooks of the past. Looking back at the coast from this distance we command a view, no doubt for the first time, of its total configuration, and when we approach it again we have the advantage of understanding it better as a whole than those who have never left it." [HATH, 616]

A little forgetfulness of the past is the necessary thrust for an effortless forwards momentum and envisioning the future from an overflowing excess;

Nietzsche wrote:
"Forgetfulness is not just a vis inertiae, as superficial people believe, but is rather an active ability to suppress, positive in the strongest sense of the word, to which we owe the fact that what we simply live through, experience, take in, no more enters our consciousness during digestion (one could call it spiritual ingestion) than does the thousand-fold process which takes place with our physical consumption of food, our so-called ingestion. To shut the doors and windows of consciousness for a while; not to be bothered by the noise and battle which our underworld of serviceable organs work with and against each other;a little peace, a little tabula rasa of consciousness to make room for something new, above all for the nobler functions and functionaries, for ruling, predicting, predetermining (our organism runs along oligarchic lines, you see) - that, as I said, is the benefit of active forgetfulness, like a doorkeeper or guardian of mental order, rest and etiquette: from which can immediately see how there could be no happiness, cheerfulness, hope, pride, immediacy, without forgetfulness." [GM, 5.2.1]

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Hillman wrote:
"Only when myth is led back into soul, only when myth has psychological significance does it become a living reality, necessary for life, rather than a literary, philosophical, or religious artifice. Scholarship belongs within this process as part of the psychological approach. How else approximate mythical reality than by immersion in its field, the contexts which breed it, the imagery it has shown throughout history. Scholarship then becomes a method of soul-making rather than mainly a method of knowing. The therapeutic revivification of the psyche and the renascence of myth – two inseparable processes that may be one and the same for insighting what we know are as important as knowing. The value of scholarship is thus to be judged not only for its contribution to intellect but as well for its contribution to imagination." [Pan and the Nightmare]

Cynicism after exposure to harsh truths can only be cured or off-put by learning to see with newer eyes... let that passion for life bubble again, a renewed thirst. Nietzsche called this phase, entering one's second childhood and starting again after the attack and recovery from modern nausea.

The wine of oblivion flowing from our whole organic soul, our cornucopia is what helps us remember ourselves in a wider arc of becoming.

We must be able to enter into subjectivity without reeling from anxiety and constantly watching over our shoulders of hurting reality. We are as real as that reality. Such a sure footing self-trust comes either with inherited instincts or long periods of self-discipline. The 8-path.

We must be able to overcome any resignation to reality or clinging to it religiously, if we are to be artists also.

We must be able to fantasize deliriously as direction-givers, to raise a toast to our world, like a man lifts his bride across the threshold.

Apollo defines all that we are Against.

Dionysos defines all that we are For.

To the noble artists of the future.

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"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*


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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:11 am

Oscar Wilde wrote:
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"I

O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?

No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?

And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?

Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot Glod of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?


II

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.

No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!

A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!

This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!

Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!"[Pan]


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"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:11 am

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[url=[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]]Shamans, Satyrs, and Cyborgs[/url]

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[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]

"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*


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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:16 am

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"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:26 am

Bourgeaud wrote:
In antiquity the Arcadians were often called proselênoi, "those who preceded the moon."
Pan's Arcadia, this land of men older than the moon, belongs to the sphere of representations. But in a symbolic system, the image chosen is not an arbitrary sign. The name of Pan, the Arcadian landscape, have a deep resonance in Greek myth. A whole horizon momentarily opens, as if through a gap in the curtain of history, into the furthest-back existence of this figure, whose traits were, however, redesigned at the end of the fifth century B.C. in the context of an ideology specific to the classical period."

Huntsman and at the same time protector of game, keeper of goats, one who made fertile the little flocks, Pan seems in this land dominated by a pastoral economy, where hunting had not been reduced to the level of a sport, to have had a function much like that of the Master of Animals, afigurewell known among hunting peoples and those in the early stages of herding. "Most ancient and most honored"—so he appears to us, at least in his homeland, where his sanctuaries were real temples or even whole mountains not, as in Attica and the rest of the Greek world, simple caves, which he had to share with other divinities." [The Cult of Pan]

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Quote :
"Hermes' son is rejected by his mortal mother, but no mischief or evil intention of his own brings on his aban­donment; Pan is cast out because he frightens people, because he is disgusting. The infant Pan, a shaggy, bearded baby with horns, who laughs, is repellent. But we must go on to stress that he is repellent only to humans: the gods, and especially Dionysus, for their part find him charming. Pan is evidently the symbolic embodiment of the repressed. But everything man flees and rejects in order to distinguish himself from the animals makes him like to the gods. The myth seems to say: if we refuse the beast, we shall never know how to resemble a god. A double and liminal figure, always transformed already, only to leave him at the precise spot where animality corresponds to the divine." [ib.]

Quote :
"Direct heir of Old Night, the Arcadian is privileged with the power of assisting at any moment at the rebirth of humankind. He stands upon the cultural threshold. One step forward and he is your complete Greek and (more important to the eye of history), a democrat; one step back and before your eyes he becomes again a savage. This liminal position entides him to a certain prestige. Ardor (thumos) is the quality Pausanias praises when he compares the character of the best of the Arcadians, Philopoemen, to the balanced mastery of an Epaminondas." But this ardor is not without excess, and one feels in Plutarch an undertone of reproach beneath his admiration of this same Philopoemen.100 Ardor, violence—and also awkwardness, which some- times caused the Greeks to smile: they enjoyed reporting the coarse be- havior of an Arcadian delegation at the Macedonian court, who were unable to restrain themselves at the sight of Thracian dancing girls.

This ardor is reported primarily in the sphere of war. According to Ephorus, the combativeness inherited from their Arcadian origin se- cured the Pelasgians their expansion and their glory. From the time of Homer the Arcadians had afirmreputation as warriors: they know how to make war and are specialists in close combat. Xenophon describes them on the way to battle: nothing held them back, "neither bad weather, nor the length of the journey, nor the mountains in their way." Lykomedes of Mantinea in 368 B.C. proudly reminds us that the Arcadians alone could call the Péloponnèse a fatherland: they are the only autochthonous inhabitants, and from this it follows not only that they form the most important Greek population, but also that they are gifted with the greatest physical strength and are the most courageous." [Borgeaud, Cult of Pan]


Quote :
"The crime of Lykaon marked a break, the end of an epoch in which man and animal were still confused. The ritual of Mount Lykaion, for its part, seems to define a space organized around the opposition between man and animal. If the "human victim" of this sacrifice looks back to the myth of Areas, to this special ancestry restored by Zeus, the exclusion of the lycanthrope, who must shun human society, helps define the limits of the social sphere.

The wolf is placed in a peripheral space. This zone around the edges, which the myth refers to the ancestral expulsion of Lykaon by Zeus, can be seen as a spatialization of the time before time; the borders where the wolf prowls signify an origin. The liminal is the proper home of beginnings, and this point is stressed by apparent ambiguity in the shift from myth to rite. As interpreted by the myth, the lycanthrope of the rite recalls not only an original horror, the criminal ancestor who is outcast and hunted from the human world; he also signifies the repulsion this horror provokes in mankind. Witnessing such a crime, the sun recoiled. And so the lycanthrope recoils; he leaves his ghastly meal and is required, even though he is now a wolf, to abstain from human flesh. He goes away, as Zeus went away, and as Lykaon went away. In contrast to the god, he is expelled horizontally and stays within reach; his territory intersects that of hunting and herding. On the other hand, in contrast to the god, who saw it all and kicked over the table, he has let himself be tricked and has tasted of human flesh: one single human morsel slipped in among a quantity of animal food. To divine omniscience corresponds human fallibility, subject to the chances imposed by the ritual. To anger and the lightning correspond horror and flight. To transcendence finally corresponds spatial depar­ ture. Anteriority (the reign of Lykaon, characterized at the same time by bestiality and by the sharing of meals with the gods) turns into a spatial exteriority where an initiation takes place. Antediluvian time marked by the abundance and the disorder of a "golden age" is replaced in the rite of passage by the "wilderness" where roams the wolf. After enduring an experience like that of the Spartan krupteia, the "wolf" comes back from this liminal space after a period of nine years. As Burkert has well shown, this return is equivalent to an integration into adult society: the wolf who recovers his human clothes is from that time on an Arcadian, an areas." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

Quote :
"Guardian of the venerable Arcadian sanctuaries," a god who treads the heights, Pan first intervenes as an observer, a privileged witness of all that happens far from the protected space where mankind lives and works.
The artists liked to think of Pan as present in the farthest West too, near the source of the Hesperides. As hunter and herdsman, the goat-god was used to watching and waiting; he comes upon scenes played out in the theater of nature, the sphere proper to his motion, at the limits of human territory. But we should not reduce his contact with the fringes of the event to a simple allegory, "representing free nature." When Pan, on Italian ceramics, serves as a sign, the sign is not univocal. He is the reflex of a landscape that means more than mere locality.
When Pan looks on at such a scene, he reflects by his presence not only a placement in "geographical" space but also a classification of the phenomenon (as a luminal experience) to which he is spectator; its meaning thus becomes clearer. The same point holds for those frequent images in which the goat-god, himself often cause of passion or subject to desire, watches an erotic adventure: the appropriation of Chrysippe by Laios, of Hippodamia by Pelops, of Europa by Zeus, of Amymone by Poseidon, the judgment of Paris.

Pan undeniably identifies a landscape, but one that is more than a spatial location. He is, after all, a god, and a sign not of the picturesque but of the supernatural. The panic landscape is a space where strange phenomena take place, irrespective of human will and power. The point is already in Plato, although not at all mythologically expressed. In the Phaedrus Socrates is described as threatened by delirium; the scene un- folds on the banks of the Ilissos; we are at the very gates of Athens, but the landscape, characterized by water and shade, is sacred to Pan and the nymphs, and it is the hour of Pan (noon)." [Borgeaud]

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"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

*Become clean, my friends.*
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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:26 am

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Quote :
"The loss of the sense of belonging is, in fact, an essential aspect of the collective phenomenon known as panic Son of Hermes according to the most prevalent tradition, Pan is well acquainted with cunning tricks. The origin myth of panic tells also of the invention of a strategem: Poly- aenus tells how Pan, when general of the army of Dionysus, invented panic while on campaign with Bacchos in India: "He passed the word by night to the army of Dionysus that they should cry out at the top of their voices; they cried out, and the rocks gave back the echo, and as the hollow of the glen echoed, their power appeared far greater to the en­ emy, who therefore, struck with terror, fled. Honoring this strategem of Pan's, we sing of Echo's affection for Pan, and the common and noc- turnal terrors of armies we call after Pan."

However, the involvement of Pan with panic goes beyond the fact that he invented it as a trick. There are closer connections. A panic is not just any kind of trick. It is a sudden and unpredictable condition. This unpredictability of Pan's action in panic reflects a characteristic of his father Hermes'.

The messenger-god appears and produces a sort of "panic" in the old man.

F. Cassola links this suddenness, this unpredictability of Hermes' arrival, with the word hermaion, which means good luck. Hermes is god of the windfall or stroke of luck—and almost literally manifests himself in the hermaion. Similarly Pan, the son of Hermes, a god we hear but do not see, manifests in the paneton his ineluctable and disturbing presence.

Panic may also be understood as an attribute proper to the hermetic nature of Pan, a specialization of traits already present in his father Hermes. With Hermes, suddenness takes the form of a godsend or windfall. Hermes is a guide who puts us on the right road: to abundance (profit, or the fertility of flocks) or simply homeward (when we are lost). As ally or provider, Hermes is unexpected. In panic sudden- ness shows another face: it takes the form of surprise, a collision with an unfamiliar that remains unfamiliar, a sphere of pure conjecture. Pan, seen this way, is something latent in Hermes, or his dark side—and yet, like Hermes, Pan comes to help us. Pan is also an ally with his panic; he was, for instance, an ally of the Athenians at Marathon. But his action is negative; he helps those he loves by creating disorder among their enemies. Furthermore, he is an ally who does not show himself. After all, how can we say where he is? He remains ineluctable. When we begin to come upon images of Pan the warrior, Pan in arms, it is only as a token to signify that he has a military function, that he interferes with warriors." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]


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Quote :
"Claude Meillier provides an analysis of panic as a psychological-religious phe­ nomenon consisting of hallucinations linked either to a state of exhaus­ tion and excitement or to a deprivation of environmental stimuli. Without exhausting the complex (polysémie) symbolism of the event, his observation, which is supported by clinical work, does bring out a possible relation between panic and the particular type of environment where it most often occurs. If we are to believe Clara Gallini, panic fear originates in the psychology of the huntsman. It occurs as a result of the weakness or exhaustion that overtakes a man at risk in the forest, one who is not up to confronting its hidden perils. Panic is a condition of alienation resulting from this stanchezza and breaks in as if nature were taking her revenge. Military panic was connected with Pan at a rela- tively late date, and this secondary connection, which was derived from the god's role in the hunt, could come about only through the gradual elimination of another god, Phobos, an obscure divinity to whom the power of fear and batde properly belonged.

Pan does not replace Phobos; rather, in panic, he produces a spe­cial version of him. Panic, after all, is phobos—phobos panikos, as Polyaenus has it.
Phobos, son of Ares, is first and foremost a specialist in war. Pan is a pastoral divinity, son of the peaceful Hermes.
Pan may be some kind of warrior, but he never takes part in combat. That is the difference between him and Phobos. Pho­bos, Ares' son, shows himself in the broil of battle; he puts to flight; he embodies our fear of the enemy. Pan, by contrast, acts at a distance. He does not actually know how to fight; rather, he helps his friends by means alien to war. He intervenes to replace combat by a bloody pa­ rodie mockery of itself. He comes before, or after, Phobos: when he interferes, the warrior is cut off from war and in fact knocked loose from all contact with reality.

Pan's position on the fringe of combat is significant; it probably, in fact, provides the key to the meaning of panic. This god, whose eyesight is excellent, looks on from afar: he is often represented as an aposkoposy a lookout.
Aeschylus, the veteran of Marathon, speaks of Pan as a high god, a hupatos, the peer of Apollo or even of Zeus. He is a lookout, stationed on the heights or on the edge of a cliff; here he looks out for justice and proportion.
One chapter of Pseudo-Eratosthenes' Catasterisms, which in turn re- fers to an ancient source (he cites Epimenides), tells us that Pan, son of the goat (Aïx) and foster-brother of Zeus, helped the latter in his struggle against the Titans. The passage explains the mythical origin of the constellation of Capricorn.

Capricorn is in form like Aegipan, from whom he derives. His lower members are animal, as are the horns on his head. He was honored [by catasterism] as foster-brother of Zeus. Epimenides, author of the Cretan History, says that he was with him on Ida when he made war on the Titans. He is thought to have discovered the salt-water conch, thanks to which he provided his allies with what is called "Panic noise," which put the Titans to flight. Once Zeus had seized power, he placed Aegipan among the stars, along with the goat his mother.

Two vase paintings contrast Pan with Athena in a military context. On an Italian amphora in the Bari museum, the goddess is watching over a batde with calm attention while Pan, on Athena's left, equipped with a lagobolon and accompanied by a deer, is running away from the scene; he turns back in mid-flight and observes the scene with his familiar gesture, that of the aposkopön. This gesture has been studied by Ines Jucker. It conveys a sense of watching from afar, of keeping one's dis- tance, and perhaps also of fright. It is the gesture of one who draws back. Even though hunting and war are closely related when looked at from the angle of shared symbolic elements, even though both are placed outside the city, the two are not to be identified. Even though hunting sheds blood, it is still an activity of life and is metaphorically erotic. On the vase in Bari, Pan and the deer run away because they are out of place in the scene: the warrior band, intent on murder, disrupts the natural order to which hunting belongs." [Borgeaud]


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"If we now pass in review Pan's interventions in military history, we observe that panic either makes battle impossible (at Phyle, Stratos, Megara, Apollonia) or else follows the batde and falls upon an enemy already vanquished; in these latter cases, the victims are barbarians (Persians or Gauls). When the Greeks find themselves victims of panic, they withdraw and go home, as though the batde they had planned has turned out to be something quite unfitting. Panic, in other words, is equivalent to a bad omen. Plutarch actually says exactly this, in connection with Pompey, who at Pharsalia went on anyway and was de- feated. Panic overtakes a special, artificial human community: the army in the field. It suggests the standing possibility of regression to a stage of cultural development prior to the balanced condition secured by the power of Zeus. The soldier will cease to recognize his fellows. Panic dissolves the bonds of a litde society characterized by a high degree of reinforcement and involution, placed as it is outside the territory proper to the city. The most likely victim of panic is the mili- tary camp as it sleeps motionless in the silence of the night, animated only by the secret whispers of the sentinels and pickets, by passwords and counter-signs. Panic thus typically attacks a model of order and disrupts it.

In the Homeric Hymn to Pan the young god's appearance at his birth is so frightful that it makes his nurse run away.

The double withdrawal (human terror, departure of the god for Olympus) that marks Pan's very first appearance among men in the Homeric Hymn clarifies the meaning of panic; the disorder there created results from an excess of distance between the divine and the human, a discontinuity that causes men to miss their footing, lose contact with reality, and succumb to the god's hallucinations: των φαντασιών αίτιος ό Πάν, says Photios's dictionary.

Panic is a collective disorder: essentially, a breakdown in communica­ tion. Pan keeps his distance. One may, however, also have the opposite problem. We learn from various texts that there is also danger in exag­ gerated closeness between Pan and mankind. When distance is insufficiendy maintained, another sort of madness lies in wait: a man may be invaded by the god and become deranged. In that case it is a matter of individual disorder.

Pan's powers of derangement alternate between one of these poles and the other. In panic, Pan seems to evade all apprehension. In posses­sion, by contrast, he makes himself known, he reveals himself; someone possessed by Pan (inspired by Pan—the panoleptic) actually borrows his behavior from the god who invades him." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]


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"At the beginning of Euripides' Hippolytus, everyone is worrying about Phaedra. The young queen has changed color; she is extremely weak and can no longer stand; she stays flat on her back in the palace, refus­ ing to eat, talking only of how she longs for the mountains and far-off meadows. Actually she is the victim of Aphrodite and sick with love for Hippolytus; the landscape she longs for is, in fact, that where he hunts. But the chorus does not know this, and is thrown back on guess­ work. From its observation of the symptoms, it hazards a diagnosis:

Are you possessed [ενθεος], young woman, either by Pan or Hecate, or do the dread corybantes make you stray about, or the Mother of the Mountains? Or do you wear yourself out unhallowed through failure to offer the sacred meal to Dictynna the huntress?

Phaedra's condition is like that of a person possessed by some god of wild nature, probably as a consequence of some wrongdoing or ritual omission. The term entbeos, possessed, whether one understands it (with Dodds) as "containing a god" or (with Jeanmaire) as uin the hands of a god," signifies that a person is as close to the divine as one can be. This closeness is disturbing. A god invades or takes over a man only when angry. One of Euripides' other female characters, the young wife of Jason, poisoned by the veil sent by Medea, is suddenly dreadful to look upon (δεινόν ην θέαμ' ίδεϊν): she changes color, begins to tremble, falls. A servant thinks the poor girl must be subject to the anger of Pan or some other divinity and raises the ololugê (άνωΚόλνξε): this ritual cry, which is proper to women attending a sacrifice, marks the moment when the victim, now consecrated (ιερόν), is invaded by the god. These two examples illustrate folk belief of the fifth century B.C. and show us that under certain circumstances, Pan could take control of an individual, invade him, and impose upon him a condition that is psycho-physiologically abnormal, and also sacred. He shares this power with a whole group of divinities: Hecate, the corybantes, the Mountain Mother, Dictynna.

Hecate and the Mother are gods to whom (among others) folk belief attributed epilepsy, called by the Greeks a "sacred disease" (hiera nosos). The Hippocratic treatise On the Sacred Disease collects superstitions re­ lated to this mysterious sickness, and tells us that "if the patient imitate a goat, if he roar, or suffer convulsions in the right side, they say the Mother of the Gods is to blame. . . . When at night occur fears and terrors, delirium, jumpings from the bed and rushings out of doors, they say that Hecate is attacking or that heroes are attacking." Accord­ing to the scholiast on the passage in Euripides describing the moment when Medea's victim becomes "dreadful to look upon," "the ancients believed that those who suddenly fall are struck in their wits by Pan or Hecate." "Those who suddenly fall" are epileptics. And in fact the development of the "fit" in Euripides' description of it fully bears out the commentary of the scholiast: white foam dribbes from the queen's mouth, her eyes roll back, her skin becomes bloodless. The servant thinks she is witnessing an acute attack and concludes that the young woman has fallen victim to the anger of Pan or some other divinity. The epileptic is invaded by a god; surely this is because the god is angry. To cure this shameful sickness, folk tradition made use of purification and incantations (καθαρμοΐσί τε χρέονται καί επαοιδησι) as in cases in­ volving people "polluted, blood-guilty, bewitched by men, or [having] committed some unholy act."

The connection between epilepsy and Pan, a connection that springs to the servant's mind, is clarified for us by a set of common Greek be- liefs according to which small livestock {probata) and especially goats are particularly subject to the sacred disease. It was generally thought that too much goat's meat and also clothes made of goatskin encour- aged the development of this sickness; conversely, and by the logic of homeopathy, epileptics were instructed to sleep on goatskins and to eat the flesh of this animal. It is thus hardly surprising that the goat-god, patron of goatherds and lover of goats, should have some rights with respect to epilepsy. Hippocratic medicine, which set out to construct a rational science, was elaborately critical of any belief that sickness came from the gods. In the case of epilepsy, it had its work cut out for it. In fact, even the terms for the "sacred disease" that we might think of as "secular" are religious in origin: epileptos and epileptikos mean "one who is grasped, carried off" and belong to a group of words formed on the model of theoleptos "grasped, carried off by a god." Thus we find numpholeptos, phoiboleptos (or phoibolarnptos), putholeptos, metroleptos, mousoleptos, erotoleptos, and finally panoleptos (or panolemptos). Epilepsy is only a particular version of theolepsy. It can be caused by Pan, by the Mother, or by other gods, but it is never ascribed to Apollo, the muses, Eros, or the nymphs. And when the gods (Pan and the Mother in- cluded) take over someone, the result need not look like an epileptic fit. Phaedra is also possessed by Pan, and her condition is quite different from that of Jason's young wife." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:26 am

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"First of all, nympholepsy is a specific type of inspiration. Socrates, who finds himself in Phaedrus's company on the banks of the Ilissos, in a district sacred to the nymphs, Pan, and Achelöos, and who is about to give a speech on madness, warns his friend:

"Hear me out in silence.
The place seems to be really divine, so that you need not be surprised if in the course of my speech I am subject to recurrent attacks of nympholepsy. Just now my utterance nearly broke into dithyrambics" (Plato Phaedrus 258 c-d).

For Plato, as we know, inspiration is a form of dis-association whereby the speaker is no longer responsible for what he says (cf. Ion, passim). So is nympholepsy. Confirmation comes from Aristotle: in the Eudemian Ethics the philosopher reviews a number of hypothetical explanations of happiness. Happiness may be by nature (like skin color), it can be learned or acquired by practice—unless someone is happy "like people who are nympholeptic or theoleptic, as if their inspiration is initiated by something supernatural" (καθάπερ οι νυμφόληπτοι και θεόληπτοι, των ανθρώπων, επιπνοία δαιμονίου τινός ώσπερ ενθουσίάζοντες).
In this case happiness would be a kind of gift, like the gift of Melesagoras.

However nympholepsy is not always linked with possession and en­ thusiasm as a form of inspiration. It can also take the form of a literal rapture; there is a whole group of myths about young people rapt or carried off by the nymphs. The best known is Hylas, Heracles's young lover. While looking for spring water, he came upon the choir of nymphs; they drew him deep into the water, where he disappeared for ever. Some rationalizer cited by the scholiast on Theocritus (ad 13.48) claimed that Hylas was drunk and simply fell into the spring. Thus demystified, the story would be stripped of its rich symbolism. To be carried off by the nymphs, even though in the Greek religious under­ standing it is very much like dying (the person involved disappears from the world of the living) is also something more: the nymphs carry their victim into a situation that looks like death only to those who remain behind; the missing person enters a new mode of existence, becomes hieros.

Theocritus calls the nymphs "dread divinities" (deinai theai). The scholiast adds: "Dread, because of the fear that seizes those who meet them; this fear causes nympholepsy."
In this sense, nympholepsy means neither inspiration nor rapture. The term here names the mad­ ness of those unhinged by fear. Such madness threatens those who see the reflection of a nymph while leaning over a spring. Nympholeptic, in this case, still means "seized or struck by the nymphs," but in the sense in which we say someone is struck or stunned by some impressive experience. To be struck in this way implies a different kind of imme­ diacy from inspiration or rapture. The victim is neither invaded by the nymphs nor carried off by them. He remains out of contact, but stu­ pefied, and cut off from any other interest.

To sum up: whether he is inspired, disappears, or goes mad, a man seized by the nymphs leaves the normal world and goes beyond the limits of human life. The nympholept is transported elsewhere and be­ comes a supercultural, superhuman creature, whom the Greeks could style hieros.

This digression on nympholcpsy will help us come to terms with cer­ tain aspects of panic possession. The two phenomena arc, in fact, closely related. The nymphs occupy the same landscape as Pan and share with him their cult places: the banks of the Ilissos (where Socrates fears an attack of nympholepsy) and the caves at Vari and on Cithaeron (also known for their nympholeptics) were sacred to Pan as well as to the nymphs. Restricting ourselves to the issue of possession, let us note that the danger of nympholepsy is particularly great at noon, which is also the hour specially set aside for Pan's appearance and his anger. The word panoleptos, formed in imitation of the better-known numpboleptos, confirms this relationship on the level of vocabulary.

Pan is often enough enraptured by masculine or feminine beauty, but the Greeks then thought of the result as a pursuit or a rape. The god does not take his victim home with him. He may nonetheless invade someone, take possession of him (which is to say, dispossess him) to such a degree that this person's communication with his fellows is radically disrupted. Panolepsy in its epileptic form, as one can reconstruct it from a reading of Euripides, is quick and violent. It is a whole-body condition that leaves the victim no energy to fantasize. We have, however, noticed that the "fit" that overtakes Jason's young wife is in certain respects not unlike the much less spectacular illness that afflicts the amorous Phaedra. Phaedra displays the same preliminary symptoms (change of color, great weakness of the body), but in her case, they are less violent. And in her case, fantasy begins its work. It carries the heroine off to mountain landscapes and distant meadows. The queen, whose bodily form is shut up in the palace, in the dark, seems to wander through the domain of the god who has invaded her; she strays about. She roams, as docs Pan (as does Hippolytus, actually, but her companions do not know that) when the hunt leads him up hill and down dale. She behaves exacdy like the nympholepts or panolepts described by Iamblichus, who seem at certain moments constrained, and at other moments wander the mountains.

Jason's young wife undergoes the attack of the god in the shape of an epileptic fit; the amorous Phaedra displays the symptoms of deep mel- ancholy. Whereas the nymphs cause their victims to disappear, panic "rapture" can be specified in Greek medical terms as a range of effects from epilepsy, which is a complete derangement, to melancholy, which is an estrangement rendering the victim inaccessible to his companions. From the point of view of ancient medicine, this range of effects is quite natural. In the Hippocratic treatise on Epidemics, we find an explicit statement that "melancholies regularly become epileptics, and epileptics melancholies; as between these two conditions, it all depends on the direction of the illness: if it affects the body, it is epilepsy; if the mind, it is melancholy." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:27 am

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"Certain texts show us a Pan capable not only of derangement but also of radical transformation, whereby the victim changes his nature. Nonnos mentions a Pan lussöön, "mad," who can shatter an enemy fleet with his sharpened claws (or horns, or hooves, θηγαλέοι,ς όνύχεσσυ). The participle lussöön relates this fury to personified madness, to the mythical Lyssa. This latter appears not infrequently in Greek mythology. She plays a terrifying and bewitching melody upon her flute, and thus transforms her victim into a mad dog or a furious wolf. Heracles, who suddenly begins to pant like a dog, sets off after his children in a hunt unleashed by the goddess; the Bacchae, styled by Euripides "the quick dogs of Lyssa," track Pentheus like their prey;  Actaeon's dogs go mad and rend their master under the influence of this same Lyssa. It even seems that ety- mologically Lyssa means "she-wolf," in the sense of "she who turns one into a wolf." As Nonnos speaks of him, Pan shares the power of Lyssa.

Pan's appearance beside Lyssa serves to convey a sense of ghasdy error. Burkert observes that Actaeon's dogs are de­ scribed as acquiring partially human qualities at the very moment when they go mad; the hero turned stag is killed by creatures who, in their turn, are no longer just animals but act like huntsmen carried away by rage. Pan, grandson of Lykaon the wolf-man, is evidently a specialist in such metamorphoses.

An astonishing passage in Apuleius, which is also marked with the sign of Pan (the story is told by Syrinx), tells us to beware the ferocity of ewes at noon: "For when the sun is in his force, then seem they most dreadful and furious with their sharp horns, their stony foreheads, and their poisonous bites wherewith they arm them­ selves to the destruction of mankind." This madness, which is very like that which overtakes Pan himself in Nonnos, helps us to understand a speech by one of Theocritus's goatherds:

It is not fit, shepherd, not fit at noon for us To play the syrinx. We fear Pan. His hunt Is over now; he's tired and rests. Then is he touchy, And the bitter bile is sitting in his nose. But you, Thyrsis, would sing the woes of Daphnis And try the powers of the bucolic muse.

Bucolic ("of the cowherd") is here opposed to pastoral ("of the goat­ herd") (βονκολίκόν versus αίπολικόν). The dangers of noon relate to small animals, not to herds of cows. At noon one must avoid attracting Pan's attention by doing anything direcdy connected with his sphere: that of the syrinx and small livestock. Those who disregard this danger expose themselves to the anger of the god, to his madness. Noon is typically silent and motionless; it is the still point of the day.  Pan is the god of noise and movement; if we wake him at this hour when he should be asleep, we are in effect inviting him to fill up this silence and stillness. Pan is a god who should not be approached in silence. Consequendy, noon is the moment of the day when there is the greatest danger that he may invade us, dispossess us. In his anger, Pan would be capable of transforming the shepherd, protector of the flock, into his worst enemy, the wolf. In his madness the goat-god himself and the flocks he tends could turn as violent as carnivores. In its extreme ver­ sion, panolepsy maddens its victim and makes of him something sub­-human. To disturb Pan at noon is to flout a divine law (ου 0έμις, says Theocritus's goatherd). By the same token, Pan looks favorably on those who sleep at noon and who respect his slumbers. There is, for instance, the legend of the child-poet Pindar being fed by bees, who put honey in his mouth at noon while he sleeps in the landscape of Pan and nymphs. We have an epigraphic text that tells of a noontime dream that came from the god and allowed a critically ill child to be miracu­ lously healed. In another dream (also at noon), Pan appears to the pirate chief in Longus's Pastorals to tell him the cause of his anger and the cure for the panic that has overwhelmed his crew.

Possession results from a failure of ritual—whether owing to negli­ gence, recklessness, or actual impiety makes litde difference. Phaedra loses control of herself (according to her women) because she has not honored as she ought some god or goddess of wild nature; therefore, she is swept away, drawn in fancy to the realm of this divinity. The gen­eral similarity with Dionysiac mania should be noted. The latter breaks out in its most violent form when people refuse to recognize Dionysus's divinity or to accept his cult; its mythical victims are people like Pen- theus or Lycurgus. In Euripides' play, the Bacchae themselves had at first refused to accept the new god. Lyssa, whose power is close to Pan's, turns up also in the sphere of Dionysus (she can be seen in Aeschylus and Euripides, driving on the maenads). The Homeric Hymn to Pan takes note of the deep bond between the goat-god and the god of maenads by stressing Bacchus's particular pleasure in welcoming the newborn Pan to Olympus." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:27 am

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"The mountain sanctuaries of Arcadia, whose sacred character is sometimes further marked by the existence of an area where men have no right to enter (the abaton of Mount Lykaion).

The underlying idea remains abduction, not death: Hylas, Astakides, and the van­ished children (whose beauty is not irrelevant) have been carried off, ravished by the nymphs.

Pan's violent antipathy to civic space is amusingly expressed in an epigram from the Greek Anthology, where the god in spite threatens to come to town. Nothing could have brought him to such an extreme resolution except his despair at the death of his lover, the cowherd Daphnis. The goat-god, whose resorts must seem doubly divided from the city (by his supernatural standing, as much as by his spatial distance), could bring there nothing but disorder. Artemidoros in the Oneirocriticus insistendy makes the point that to dream of Pan dressed as a city dweller appearing in public space means nothing but catastrophe and upheaval, while his appearance in the natural wilderness betokens success and happiness. To some degree, the disorder provoked by Pan (whether it troubles individuals with possession or collectivities with tumultuous panic) is direcdy the effect of a simple displacement. Pan brings with him into the political universe the properties of the space where he is at home. As a setting for wanderings that are agitated, un­ certain, and unstable, this space slips out of proportion. Huntsmen and herdsmen are led about there in response to the movement of animals as much as by their own cunning. This movement, these arcs, which are more or less irrational and uncertainly related to their center, find more explicit expression in the chase, and also in dancing, which is typical of the divinities found there: Hecate, Artemis and the nymphs, the Mother of the Mountains with her corybantes, Dionysus and the maenads. The Homeric Hymn to Pan describes the resdess mobility of the goat-god: "He wanders this way and that through the thick copses, sometimes trailing along the delicate brooklets; sometimes in turn he wanders the rocks where the sun climbs, making his way up to the highest peak, a watcher of flocks. Often he runs across the great white mountains, often he drives his beasts through the dales and kills them; he is quick to fix his gaze."

While the stress here is on Pan as huntsman, the Homeric Hymn does not pass over his role of herdsman: well acquainted with rocky paths, the god rises to the peak whence flocks are observed .

As the guard of litde flocks, Pan is a guide (an inscription from Tegea calls him prokathegetês) who knows how to lead the beasts from summer grazing to winter pastures. Euripides takes note of his knowledge of the routes that lead from mountain to plain when he describes him driving the golden ram, a royal badge for Thyestes, from Arcadia to Argos. A Thessalian legend told how the herdsman Kerambos, because he refused to pay attention to Pan's advice when told to bring his flocks down from the mountain before the coming of winter, lost his sheep and was himself turned into an insect (the Cerambyx, a great beede with pincers shaped like the pastoral lyre). Transhumance is evidently the necessary condition for bringing order to a territory that human beings can occupy only provisionally. In taking charge of pastoral space and of the periodic rhythm of its exploitation, it grants herding a standing among civilized activities. Thanks to transhumance, the herdsman escapes the nomadic life—which (for the Greeks) would cut him off from humanity. To refuse transhumance would be to give oneself up to disorder, without recourse. The Thessalian shepherd who insists on staying in the mountains for the bad weather sees the snow cover his sheep and his paths vanish. In this formless and confused landscape, he can no longer find his way, nor any solid ground. The directionless snow comes before him as the mark of Pan's hostile power. We can already see that this disorientation, and the unheralded death it brings on the shepherd and his flocks, in a small way echoes the tumult and murderous imbalance that on a grand scale overtakes an army subject to the god. In our study of panic properly so-called, we shall see more clearly how readily Pan's hallucinatory powers interact with the effect of snow.

On the level of pastoral activity, the snow has the effect of turning the mountain over to Pan. He is left sole master of the peaks, along with his nymphs, whom the people of Delphi called "white young girls"; the god then "traverses peaks struck by winter." Pastoral activity thus turns out to be ambiguous; it places mankind in a space bordering this sterile whiteness, and makes him neighbor to the nomad, damned to wandering. Let us remember that the goats who make up the flocks of Pan are themselves ambivalent animals, on the borderline between wild and domesticated. Yet for all this, pastoral activity is defined as an ac- tivity of civilization: the cycle of return (transhumance) comes to call him back. And Pan himself oversees the enactment of this cycle, he who never comes down to the city of men, unless to confound them.

In Arcadia more than anywhere, Pan is lord of mountains. He does not live in a cave; rather his premises are called (by those few authors who describe them) kalië, aulis, or aulë. All three terms have to do with Pan as a herdsman. Kalië means a hut made of boughs that shelters the shepherd beside the sheepfold (aulis) that protects the flock against wild beasts. Aulê is another word for fold; Aelian speaks of it as an ac- tual place on Mount Lykaion; it is sacred to Pan and, he tells us, no wolf dares enter it; goats and sheep may shelter in this sanctuary, as may any animal pursued by a wild beast. Thus we see how in the care of this god the pastoral function (protection and increase) overflows and extends beyond the sphere of the human shepherd. Pan is the herdsman par excellence, even among undomesticated creatures.

Pan's sacred enclosure on Mount Lykaion, an asylum where he protects any animal pursued by a wolf, attests the survival of old beliefs in which Pan was divine master of the animal world, wild as well as domesticated. This sanctuary, which sets an inviolable limit to the murderous power of the wolf (and surely also of the huntsman), guarantees the survival of wild game and is an extension of Pan's power over animal fertility; we shall see that the Arcadians thought Pan responsible for the abundance, and correspondingly for the scarcity, of meat, whether ob- tained by hunting or by herding.
The landscape of choice for these savage goats was Crete; there was a story that Cretan goats knew how to cure arrow wounds and so taught mankind the use of the famous medicinal plant called diktamon.

That Pan has a share of the Indo-European heritage not only in his name but also on the level of religious representation seems to result from a comparison with a well-known figure of the Vedic pantheon, Pusan. The two gods, Pan and Pusan, display such exact and important similarities that several linguists have tried to ascribe to them a common etymology: Puçân would derive from a root pus, "make pros- per, nourish."
Pan the guardian and protector and Pùsân the nourisher, "the fattener," have a number of traits in common. Even though we have to admit that they are etymologically distinct, their names both refer to their pastoral function. They are approximate homonyms, and they are really homologous.

Protector of flocks and of riches, guide of travellers and the dead, Püsan retrieves stray animals and objects." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:27 am

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"Thus Polybius explains the importance of music in Arcadian education:

For it is a well-known fact, familiar to all, that it is hardly known except in Arcadia, that in the first place the boys from their earliest childhood are trained to sing in measure the hymns and paeans in which by traditional usage they celebrate the heroes and gods of each particular place: later they learn the measures of Philoxenus and Timotheus, and every year in the theatre they compete keenly in choral sing- ing to the accompaniment of professional flute-players, the boys in the contest proper to them and the young men in what is called the men's contest. And not only this, but through their whole life they entertain themselves at banquets not by listening to hired musicians but by their own efforts, calling for a song from each in turn.

Polybius comments:

The primitive Arcadians, therefore, with the view of softening and tempering the stubbornness and harshness of nature, introduced all the practices I mentioned, and in addition ac- customed the people, both men and women, to frequent festivals and general sacrifices, and dances of young men and maidens, and in fact resorted to every contrivance to render more gende and mild, by the influence of the customs they instituted, the extreme hardness of the national character. The Cynaetheans, by entirely neglecting these institutions, though in special need of such influences, as their country is the most rugged and their climate the most inclement in Arcadia, and by devoting themselves exclusively to their local affairs and political rivalries, finally became so savage that in no city of Greece were greater and more constant crimes committed.

Society in Arcadia attempted a difficult balance. It tried to unite elements naturally at odds by force of institutions and to appease a latent violence through music.

As Dodds says, "Dionysiac experience is essentially collective or congregational, and is so far from being a rare gift that it is highly infectious." The manifestation of Pan most in this line—and most like a Dionysiac phenomenon (which need not imply borrowing)—is surely panic, not panolepsy. Panic is, after all, a collective state, which runs through a group like wildfire, while panolepsy (possession, enthusiasm, etc.) affects individuals and does not seem to be contagious. But panic is also opposed to maenadism in that it is not ritualized. An army is not a thiasos.

When the Greeks talk of possession (in the sense of enthusiasm or thcolepsy), they are less likely to name Dionysus than the corybantes, the nymphs, or Pan. From Plato on, the favored formula for inspiration is: "to act like a corybant." Iamblichus speaks of inspiration deriving from Pan, the nymphs, or corybantes. "Those who act like corybantes" believe they hear the music of the god who possesses them; they hear the flutes of the Great Mother inside their heads. The cory- bant is in an ecstatic state: such a person no longer perceives the human world. He is asleep with his eyes open, somewhere else. He is taken beyond the limits of the social world; like some panolepts, he is drawn to caves, wild thickets, springs. Something plucks him out of the city and goads him toward the realm of the goddess who possesses him: Cybele or the Mother of the Gods. When someone panics, by contrast, he hears nothing but noise (since he is cut off even from the source of his own fear). The corybant is abducted by the god, hurled straight into the divine world; he goes away, and is for a while evicted from the human condition.

The maenads and the corybantes take part in an organized and planned ritual. Panolepsy, by contrast, is in this respect like panic: wild and unpredictable. In panolepsy, however, Pan takes hold of isolated persons, who thereby become exceptional, asocial; in panic, he strikes human groups, which he knocks loose from culture by destroying all sense of the proper balance between man and god." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]


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"The goat-god, who is protector and especially herdsman of animals, also hunts. We see him sometimes playing relaxedly with a hare but his most frequent attribute after the syrinx is the throwing stick, the lagobolon used to kill these animals. The Homeric Hymn to Pan describes him in motion as "slayer of beasts" with a huntsman's keen eye- sight. Herding and hunting are two aspects of one function; this god who protects the balance of nature in the animal sphere also has in his care the limits set on activities that might threaten that balance. Artemis, prototypical huntress, is also mistress of animals, and knows how to punish men who go too far in killing, as in the case of Orion. There is also scattered evidence for a cult of Pan among huntsmen. Arrian warns them against forgetting Pan, Artemis, and the other divinities of wild nature. If these are not invoked before setting out, there may be malign consequences, described in an archaic curse formula: "For then the dogs hurt themselves, the horses pull up lame, and the men stumble".

For the ancients, the goat was midway between the wild and the domesticated. Pan is, then, just this side of the animal sphere where Artemis has full power: the sphere of the bear, the stag, the lion, and the wild boar. Conversely, the hunt of the wild goat was not proper to Artemis: the Cretans of the archaic period consecrated their handsome reliefs that portrayed this kind of hunting to Hermes and Aphrodite. Surely huntsmen must not forget the goat- god, but that is because he belongs to the landscape they explore, to the open country, the mountains, the marshes; similarily, fishermen honor Pan Aktios as god of river banks and ocean promontories where the goats come for fresh water and salt.

The sphere of Pan thus overlaps with that of Artemis, whom the Greeks saw as nourisher of wild game and goddess of hunting—but only partially, and his mode of action in this limited sphere coincides only partially with that of the Mistress of Animals. On the other hand, the goat-god has in one respect power where she has not. While she has to do only with wild animals, his dominion is over both wild and domesticated beasts, and the frontier between them. He is the unassuming patron of the huntsman and his game and also patronizes the shepherd's care of small flocks." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:27 am

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"Goats seen in a dream, Artemidorus of Ephesus tells us, "do not pre­dict marriages or friendships or partnerships nor do they secure those that exist, for such goats do not run in a flock, but rather pasture sepa­ rately from one another; among the peaks and rocks they have trouble themselves and make trouble for the shepherd." The interpreter of dreams finds in the goat an implication explicit in the goat-god. "Panic marriage," to use Euripides' phase, is a violent coupling, to the last de­gree extra-marital. Two terra-cottas, one from Boeotia, the other from Asia Minor, show Pan sleeping with a nymph. But this god's experi­ ences of women, although they cover quite a range, are generally ephemeral and most frequendy unfortunate. In the Homeric Hymn, he is a lonely god. The nymphs perhaps call to him, but down from a rock "which the goat cannot reach". The poet seems to suggest tliat the goat-footed god cannot reach it either: the nymphs are mocking him. When Pan and die nymphs do come together, in the evening, after the hunt, it is only to dance and to sing. Passion surely draws Pan to the nymphs and animates tiieir dance, but detachment is preserved. This god, who has so much in common with Aphrodite, succeeds only at musical performance.

The isolated haunts of Pan, a territory devoted to the hunt and to the rearing of goats and sheep, are in principle closed to women. Pseudo- Heracleitus has it exactly right: this is a sphere of frustration. This landscape has been set aside for stricdy masculine projects—except that the maenads sacred to Dionysus can enter it, and die nymphs of Artemis. The ritual practices of diese creatures, midway between mydi and social actuality, are marked by a steady opposition to normal feminine behavior. The maenads, like die nymphs, flourish outside of social space. The nymphs have nothing at all to do with die city, while Dionysus's female companions, who are often wives and mothers, cut themselves off for a time from die cultural order to which they normally belong: Dionysiac frenzy tears them from the familial hearth and their marital duties and drives them for a time from the city, toward the wilderness, far from men. The nymphs, who live in caves, are at home in a landscape visited by the maenads; their kinship is with Artemis, and they are thus cut off from everything male—which does not prevent occasional contact when the chance is offered; in their transitory love affairs with shep- herds and huntsmen, they are the aggressors. Not uncommonly, in fact, they employ violence and carry off the object of their desire; rape, in that case, is a kind of death.

Aphrodite's powers, when mediated by Pan, are thus placed in an environment that negates their ultimate purpose: marriage. Pan's sexu- ality seizes whatever is available, or becomes perverted. It is by definition nonfamilial and wild. The poets like to call Pan duserös ("unlucky in love"). In this he is like Theocritus's goatherd, whose eyes mist over when he sees a buck coupling a goat. The shepherds practice two ex- pedients that they share with Pan, who may even have invented them: onanism and bestiality. Dio Chrysostomus transmits a tradition that onanism was taught Pan by Hermes, who "seeing his son astray day and night upon the mountain, in love with Echo and unable to secure her, had pity on his distress."

Panic passion is unstable for the same reason that it is violent and futile: it is entirely opposed to marriage. Just as Pan's landscape is detached from the city and its agricultural land, so his erotic behaviour remains detached from the institution that gives passion its acculturated form. Lucian finally makes this detachment explicit in one of his imaginary dialogues when Pan responds to his father Hermes: "Tell me, Pan, are you married yet?—Oh, no, father! I belong to Eros, after all, and I wouldn't want to get bound to one woman."

A solitary vagabond, a wanderer through snowy wastes, in frontier territories off the beaten track (mountains, gullies, rocks), Pan seems gripped by a constant and eccentric restlessness. The erotic life of this creature follows the pattern of his wanderings, and consists of a se- quence of passing encounters, furtive and violent couplings, often unnatural and altogether extramarital. An epigram by Agathias the Scholastic shows us how Pan's eroticism matches his landscape. That this little poem was written in the sixth century A.D. by a Byzantine scholar does not deprive it of all relevance. The epigram, after all, is a pure act of virtuosity. It strives for a purely formal originality, while the semantic content remains entirely conventional.

Pan of the crags, Stratonicus the plowman In thanks sets aside for you this unsown place. "Graze your flocks here," he says, "and joy to sec This ground of yours no longer cut with bronze.

Panic marriage is illegitimate, sterile, and violent like Pan's landscape; culture has abandoned this territory to the wanderings of the goatherd and huntsman.

At his birth Pan was rejected by his mother; this important element in the myth means a variety of things and should be analyzed from sev- eral points of view. On the most general level we can detect a fear linked to incest as latently expressed by the violence of this event—violence not marked by the playful tone of the Homeric Hymn. If we take it that the prohibition of incest generally functions to make possible exchange and communication in the form of marriage, we can then say that Pan represents this exchange and communication in an exaggerated form. The resdessness of the goat-god and his sexual promiscuity are just as contrary to marriage as is the introversion that is incest. Thus Pan on the erotic level turns out to be an anti-Oedipus. It is perhaps worth noticing in this connection that the figure against whom he defines himself in order to claim his territory is Demeter, a mother who does not succeed in separating from her daughter!

In Pan's case, it is excessive desire that opposes him to marriage and leads to the fragmentation and dispersion of his erotic objects. Panic sexuality is crippled by glut; it is cut off from its object, which vanishes in the end (cf. Echo, Syrinx), by a desire so intense that it cannot estab- lish a relationship with an objective purpose. We shall see that Greek accounts of panic eroticism bring us, very naturally, to the myth of Narcissus.

From the fifth century onward, the Greeks ascribed to this god the power of raising uncontrollable desire. According to one of Aristophanes' characters, he could make the whole male population of a city ithyphallic. In Menander's Dyscolos, the passion he inspires in young Sostratus for Cnemon's daughter has the look of an actual frenzy (supernatural possession). When Theocritus's shepherd prays the god to put in Aratos's power the young man his friend loves, he knows whereof he speaks: not only is pederasty one way of sacrificing to Pan, but the god, who in myth is himself gripped by desire, also has the power to affect whom he will with the pangs he knows so well himself. This power, whereby Pan shares the prerogatives of Aphrodite, allows him to be thought of as the father of lynx, the personification of violent regret and unlimited desire." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:27 am

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"The syrinx was already an attribute of Pan's in the fifth century. In the mythological great tradition, not he, but Hermes was the inventor of this instrument. It is, however, certain that the notes drawn from his flute by the goat-footed god were infused with the symbolism that at a very early period adhered to this instrument.

The Greek syrinx was made up of a row of parallel reeds, all of the same length, fastened together with beeswax; the whole was braced together with metal or wood. Pitch was determined by plugs (of beeswax or the segments of the reeds themselves), which in each reed fixed the height of the column that gave the note. Beeswax, which "binds" the reeds (hence the epithet kërodetas applied to the syrinx by Euripides), is not symbolically neutral. Its stiff consistency contrasts with the fluid sound, which the Greeks from Pindar onward compare with liquid honey; Pan "sprinkles his own sort of honey." But if the music spread abroad by the flute is like the harvest of the bees, it is to an opposite purpose; honey carries here only its seductive qualities (it makes us drunk, we sink within its sweetness). Far from treasuring up goods in the manner of the chaste and laborious bee, Pan squanders, "sheds" his sound; he drowns the world with a siren's music. This seduction is first and foremost pastoral; the melodies sprung from the di- vine lips guide and fertilize the flocks.

The Alexandrians did not invent the erotic character of this music; it is already present in Euripides when he describes Apollo's service to Admetus; herding beasts among mortals, the god tunes his lyre to the shepherd's syrinx and plays pastoral wedding songs. But the shrill whisde of the syrinx is not made only for love songs. There is something disturbing about it, even funereal. In the Homeric Hymn to Pan, it sounds at evening, plaintive and unend­ ing, when the god comes home alone from the hunt. Later we shall return to the syrinx (whose music combines love and mourning) and to echo (whose deceitful sound combines music with noise). Let us here be content with one detail directly relevant to the Alexandrian stories just cited. When Pan pursues a girl, be she Echo or Syrinx, her song is preserved by Earth. It is the voice of one buried, which rises from a place beyond our reach, mediated by the echo or the reeds of the flute. Now the syrinx is sometimes an instrument that communicates with the other world: according to Euripides, the music of its mourning can reach as far as Hades. The Greek word synnx can, however, mean any long, hollow object. Although the meaning "Pan's flute" is attested as Homeric, the word is used in the Iliad to mean the sheath of a lance. In tragedy it can mean the axle nave of a chariot, in Polybius, a tunnel or mine.  Syrinx is etymologically related to Sanskrit surüngä, "subterranean corridor." Gaia's action in receiving the girl and sending forth reeds in her stead may suggest that the etymological sense of synnx plays some part in the legend. As for the echo, whose tone of mourning is also stressed in the Homeric Hymn to Pan,78 it receives in Pindar's Olympian 4 the concrete form of a girl who, when put in motion by the song of the syrinx, can carry a message as far as the halls of Persephone

Dance and music are among Pan's most fundamental traits—and among the traits most often ascribed to him in literature and in the plastic arts. The god is at one and the same time animalistic, a "leaper" who is deformed and unhappy in love, and also a completely musical creature who, when he likes, is irresistibly charming. These two aspects do not merely coexist; they coincide.

In the myth, the syrinx comes into existence as the object of desire escapes. Music, so closely associated with Pan's dance, seems thus to originate in a deficit. But we would be wrong to take it as a mere substitutive compensation. It is infused with supernatural power and is that which it replaces; it has all the overpowering force of passion—and its reality: it is the divine word diat in the pastoral world fertilizes the flocks, and in a wider symbolic universe leads mankind in a dance where, as Sophocles has it, we take wing under the sign of Eros and of Charis." [Borgeaud, The Cult of pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:28 am

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"Apollodorus's fragment makes a great point of the echo, a noise that comes we know not whence, but which we ascribe to Pan and the nymphs. The relation between panic and the echo is a fundamental theme. It brings into reliet one way in which the Greeks felt the presence of the god Pan. The god is manifest in the echo. Pausanias writes that the people around Menalia in Arcadia could hear Pan play the flute. More than one Greek mountain was haunted by Pan's music: Cythaeron (Euripides' Bacchae: 951fF), Lykaion (Pausanias 8.38.11); and also the vicinity of Apollonia in southern Illyria (Ampelius Liber memorialis 8.7.10). Pan is somewhere; he is very near, but invisible; he is a disembodied voice. A sound can be heard, but one cannot tell from where.

Folk traditions that connect the echo with wild nature and its god are not, of course, restricted to Greece. There is no shortage of parallels, which need not lead us to posit some kind of diffusion extending all the way to the peoples of Siberia. When Lucretius speaks of the deceptive sounds heard in desert places among the rocks and mountains, he is quick to associate Pan with the old Roman god Faunus:

Such places the neighbours imagine to be haunted by goat- foot satyrs and nymphs, and they say there are fauns, by whose night-wandering noise and jocund play they com- monly declare the voiceless silence to be broken, with the sound of strings and sweet plaintive notes, which the pipe sends forth touched by the player's fingers; they tell how the farmers' men all over the countryside listen, while Pan, shak- ing the pine leaves that cover his half-human head, often runs over the open reeds with curved lips, that the panpipes may never slacken in their flood of woodland music. All other signs and wonders of this sort they relate, that they may not perhaps be thought to inhabit a wilderness which even the gods have left. This is why they bandy about these miraculous talcs, or they arc led by some other reason, since all mankind arc too greedy for ears to tickle.

Lucretius's description of these beliefs, especially the centrality he awards the music of the god, suggests that he is following a Greek model. Faunus is no musician. Only in Greece, so far as we know, is the echo held to be a form of music made by wild gods rather than simply noises they stir up, or their voices. Furthermore, Lucretius describes the echo as originating in the "sweet mourning" (dukis querelas) of divine flutes. This notion of mourning is also derived from a Greek model. In the Homeric Hymn to Pan, Echo answers with a sound like mourning (peristenei) when Pan and the nymphs sing and dance.

For the Greeks, the echo brings to mind a quite specific meaning of music made by the gods of the wild: it suggests the hopeless love, mingled with jealousy and hatred, felt by Pan for the nymph Echo—a story we find told and retold in various forms from the Alexandrian period on down. Because it embodies Echo, the echo means failure, means that ineluctable sound, ever in motion, that is desired and slips away. As a result, the echo, as it seems to put the divine world (Pan and the nymphs) in communication with the human, no sooner mediates than it transforms. What entered the channel as music comes out, at the other end, as inarticulate sound. The echo begins to communicate, but vainly, and the result is illusion; the god does not appear, there merely lingers a disconcerting unexpectedly created opening to the unknown.

The Greeks never deny the relation between Pan and panic. The his- torians, it is true, usually speak only of immediate and naturalistic causes, but their recurrent use of such phrases as "the disorder ascribed to Pan" and "the fear we call panic" shows that their prudent rationalism was not generally shared and had to deal with widely held beliefs. Fur- thermore, a review of the panics they report reveals that most of them took place somewhere near a sacred cave of Pan." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:28 am

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"Panic is connected with echoes; this in turn brings us to the legend of the nymph Echo, the ever-mobile, ineluctable object of Pan's vain pursuit. The god in this legend is an object of repulsion, something to be shunned. Panolepsy, by contrast, negates distance; in a "seizure" the effect of Pan, even to the point of madness or paralysis, is essentially an aspect of his capacity to attract and bind through music. Pan reminds us of the nurse who shunned the god at his birth; panolepsy evokes, on the human level, the charm that spread through Olympus when the young Pan arrived. Should there not be a myth corresponding to that of Echo on the other, the panoleptic side, a myth where the goat-god's seductive powers would take erotic effect without rejection?

As we know, Pan is usually unlucky in love (duserös). He is a goat- herd and does not understand love. We hear much of his attempts, but litde of his success.

Pan's effect on mankind, at the extremes, ranges from a fear that re- pels to an intrusion that deranges. The pattern established by these two poles of panic mania corresponds, in the sphere of the gods, to the pattern of Pan's relations with such beings as the Titans, Echo, Typhon, and Selene. To the contrast between fear and possession among mankind corresponds the contrast between repulsion and charm in the divine sphere. The myth suggests, furthermore, that in Pan's case there is a close relationship between insane derangement and erotic behavior.

Without the indirections of metamorphosis or disguise, without any of those precautions customary to the gods when they appear among mankind with good in- tentions, Pan bursts right upon them. He is playing the syrinx and wielding his rhabdos (staff). This latter attribute is proper to Pan's father Hermes; the rhabdos, a magic wand, puts to sleep anyone it touches; it charms and immobilizes. Here it acts to reinforce on the level of touch an impression transmitted also through hearing (the syrinx) and sight (the demas).

Contact with the divine entails the disap- pearance of the young man, who is detached from the sensible world. Hylas is the victim of his own charm (the myth dwells upon his erotic attractions: the nymphs cannot resist him); he is swept off into the void. In the Asiatic legend, by contrast, the sudden appearance of Pan does not carry the woodcutters into another world; it freezes them to the spot, in their bodies. The text stresses that they are victims of tham- bosy that is to say, of awful terror, of the horror that seizes one who sud- denly recognizes a god. Such an appearance, so far from reducing distance, makes it vivid, and forcibly brings to our attention the otherness of the divine. There is nothing rapturous about paralytic torpor; it is repulsive in nature. This contrast between the seduction worked by the nymphs and the thambos caused by Pan's appearance is all the more striking in that it seems to oppose divinities who, as we have seen, are closely linked, and who more often than not act in conjunction. Perhaps, after all, attraction and repulsion, charm and terror, should be seen as complementary aspects of a single phenomenon: the nymphs who beguile Hylas are the same creatures called "dread goudesses" (deinai theai) by Theocritus, and although his appearance is repellent, Pan nonetheless plays a seductive melody upon his syrinx." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:28 am

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"In the Homeric Hymn Pan crosses the gap between earth and Olympus; he thus signifies a union, as well as an opposition, between mortal terror and divine delight. The escape of his nurse and the charm that spreads about Olympus have but one cause: the appearance of the mon- ster with his sweet smile. This monster is a musician. The syrinx, his most frequent attribute, instills inebriation everywhere; in the matrix of its harmonics, earth and sea and starry heaven melt together. It thus joins man with god and keeps the universe moving to its rhythm. But it can also disrupt the finely balanced order it reveals. Let it be slightly off-key, let there be a moment of irritation, and this ambiguous music sounds the strident note of Lyssa's flute, inciting frenzied anger. Pan's syrinx can even substitute for Athena's trumpet and signal terror.

Pan starts at the other extreme; here there is nothing but noise and disorder. Pan works upon the sense of hearing and makes it phan- tasmal; under his influence, nothing is taken for something—but this nothing (this echo), as the myth of Echo shows, is not really just anything: it derives in the last analysis from that otherworldly music, those faraway harmonies of the syrinx that lead the dance and the song of the nymphs. In panic, the extreme disjunction of man and god creates a gap where illusions flood in; thereby a collectivity of warriors—in its own way—experiences images as false as those driving the god to pursue the unobtainable Echo. There is a correspondence between the human group, disorganized and crippled by a fear whose cause resists identifi- cation, and the mythical image of Pan's confusion and ultimate rage when he finds himself seduced by an object who escapes his passion. Nor is panolepsy different: however weird and abnormal the behavior of the panolept, he nevertheless declares himself both impure and sa- cred. His madness is very close to certain kinds of divination and prophecy; behind the trembling of his body and the contortions of his face, we can glimpse the shudder of Eros joined to the smile of Pan. The relevant mythical paradigm is not a violent overthrow, but a deceitful seduction, which overtakes titanic or monstrous figures. The panolept is possessed.

When fear and desire are connected to Pan, they appear placed under the sign of inconstancy and illusion. Panic desire is as futile as panic fear; the one pursues a bodiless voice, or an illusory body, while the other is set in motion by a phantasmagoric enemy.

Repulsion and attraction thus have this in com- mon: their object escapes them. Faced with this vacuity, Pan's victim begins to generate images; delirious dreams and visions come to fill the empty space and thus correspond to the god's music, to the syrinx filled with the sighs of despised love.

In the case of the god, the "imaginary" and the "real" are contrasting twin aspects of a single nature. Music and noise, longing and animality, correspond. Pan is double in his essence, dipbuës as Plato says.  It cannot be so with his victims. Panic deception, as it carries them away, also splits them in two. We have seen how Phaedra's melancholy draws her helpless into wild nature, while her inert body remains immobile in the palace. She is lost to herself, subject to a force like that which separates another kind of melancholic, the lycanthrope or werewolf, from his hu- manity. There longing has a different character; it is not erotic but can- nibalistic. Nevertheless, the two phenomena are similar in that in both two incompatible personalities are simultaneously or alternately present. Lycanthropy as the ancients describe it is a form of split personality: the medical writers describe the victim as pale, feverish, and parched during the day, but all the same human and not dangerous, while at night he becomes a possessed creature (katecbomenos), who, we hear, prowls the cemeteries. In the field of panic disorders, a whole series of disasters share the orientation of lycanthropy: Actaeon's dogs eat their master; at noon the frenzied rams become carnivorous; the shepherds in a sudden frenzy tear at Echo's corpse. Panic madness, mythically defined as a longing that cannot obtain its object and thus generates an illusory object, may culminate in the imaginary metamorphosis of the subject. When Pan's victim is deceived in his object, he is driven back on him- self. He is deceived, ultimately, about himself. He becomes another, or supposes himself another. This illusion, which at the level of personal longing brings us back, no doubt, once more to the myth of Narcissus, takes another form on the level of collective fear, in panic: the soldier cannot recognize his own people or even his own language, and in the end a military camp divides into two antagonistic groups. Fear and long- ing, panic and possession ultimately derive from a single potent source." [Borgeaud, The Cult of pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:28 am

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"When the mania breaks out, the victim of the god is often described as having
experienced a blow. Something strikes a man forcibly, makes him recoil, knocks him off the straight and reasonable path. Eumaeus in the Odyssey is called πλαγκτέ (which means both "starded" and "dis­tracted") at the moment when he hands his bow to an Odysseus thought by the suitors to be a mere beggar with no right to join in their contest.  Wheresoever the "blow' originates, it is seen as something out of place and untimely. The classic writers (particularly the drama­tists) employ a whole series of related metaphors having to do with various types of mania; the verbs paraplazein, parakoptein, parakrouein, parapaiein, and so on, are not exact synonyms, but they all evoke, in speaking of madness, the image of some element essential to personal balance (phrënes or nous, "mind") that is driven, warped, or deranged by a blow. Sometimes the stress is on the invalidity of the practical result (by analogy with striking a counterfeit coin), sometimes on deviation from the norm.

Similar expressions are used for more violent types of aberration: the terror that deranges (ekplêttô) or frenzy (paraplêttein). According to Josef Mattes, these lexical variants cluster around a single underlying representation: either one thinks of an organ (seat of the nous or of the phrenes), which holds its place in the body while it functions normally but when it is sick leaves that place or is even ejected from the body, or else, more plausibly, one thinks of some movement that strikes the pbrenes and shifts them from their usual locus. For our purposes it makes no difference what kind of organ is affected by the blow. The Greek understanding of the body and its psychic organs is a difficult problem, which can be left to the historians of medicine. The crucial fact from our point of view is that the individual comes up sharp against a reality the ancients called divine—often without further speci­fication. Most frcquendy, it must be observed, the Greeks do not tell us what aspect of divinity deals the blow. This docs not mean that they were unconcerned about the source of the disorder, but rather that it was outside the reach of normal human understanding. For this reason, when they are (exceptionally) in a position to give it a name, we must understand that we are dealing with a mania of a particular type. Now we know from Menander that the god Pan, who was able to make someone "apoplectic" (which means literally "diverted by a blow"), is one personification of this unknown force that strikes us. The moment has come to focus on a feature we have neglected so far, in spite of its remarkable evocative power: the whip.

In the Rhesus Hector alludes to a generally understood represen­ tation of panic phobos when he says that the army has been stirred by the whip that makes one tremble (μάστιγι τρομερή), the implement of Pan, son of Cronos. This reference to the whip enables us to place the blow given by the goat-god squarely within the symbolic context proper to pastoral; it is one of many images available to Greek con­ sciousness through close familiarity with animal husbandry. One myth, which we might call its myth of origin, actually makes of the whip (mastix) an emblem of the herdsman's world. This myth forms part of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes and places the invention of the mastix in a setting where Pan is quite at home: the region of Mount Kyllene in Arcadia. Here we find that the mastix, like the syrinx, belonged first to Hermes, as god of herdsmen: it was given him by Apollo along with responsibility for flocks.

The whip is associated with a whole series of instruments (rhabdos, imasy kentron, etc.) used to drive animals; it is special, however, because it is exceptionally violent, and as a consequence seems to have been used quite infrequendy. In connection with large domesticated animals, it is the essential sign of man's superiority over brute strength; a proverb used by Sophocles tells us that "a great-flanked ox struck by even a small whip moves straight down the road." Nonnos also (it makes no differ­ ence whether he has noticed the fact himself or is using a literary phrase) speaks of a bull who obeys the whip (μάστνγι κελεύεται). The function of the mastix is the mastery of stubborn or recalcitrant animals; in a sense, it educates them. Xenophon in his essay on horsemanship advises against whipping a horse intended for war; the use of the whip may make the animal fearful and instill a tendency to abrupt and disorderly motion. The same author, however, recognizes that this implement, which inspires fear, can be useful for the correction of a refractory horse. It is high praise to say of one's mount that "she has no need of a whip"; the lexicographer Pollux dutifully includes this in a list of phrases relative to horses.
To be under the whip is to be treated as a recalcitrant animal or (which comes to the same thing) as a subject of the great king, a barbarian humbled by the blows of hybris.

Our sense of the confusion of man and animal can be confirmed from another point of view: the herdsman's whip is used mostly on oxen and horses, that is to say, on animals themselves involved in panic, in that they are caught up in its disordered mobility (tarachai). The pho­bos of Pan strikes horses and men together, and the cause (the first vic­ tim) of an army's panic is often an animal—this belief can be traced back as far as Xenophon. Aeneas the Tactician knew well that animal disorder could seep over into human fear, since he advises sending herds of goats (or other beasts) intoxicated and hung with bells to the enemy camp at night; the stirring of animals then transforms itself without a break into human disorder.

Therefore, when the whip has a role in mania, we are dealing with mania of a particular kind. The goat-god is immediately evoked, and he is the privileged embodiment of a particular aspect or sphere of madness; he stands for a landscape where human fear enacts its hallucinations with gestures borrowed from animal disorder. Here boundaries are blurred, and in our disorientation we hear the call of uncontrollable longing." [Borgeaud, The cult of Pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:29 am

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"The cry of women proper to panic ritual is called kraugê by the Suda and the scholiast on Aristophanes. This word is not generally used of a call or of any kind of communication. The kraugê is an inarticulate cry. Aristode makes fun of an elegiac poet who chose to speak of poetry by the impossible metaphor "kraugê of Calliope." As applied to certain animal sounds, the word speaks of a use of the voice approximating pure noise—not a cry and certainly not a song. Kmugê in this sense can refer to the yelping of a dog, or to the croaking of a crow, to the bird-noise of a woodpecker, or certain bleatings of a goat.88 When produced by humans, a kraugê evidendy carries with it a negative force: in the mouth of an old witch with the voice of a grasshopper, it re- sounds as a charm harmful to small children. But it is most frequently heard in the environment of war. This is the cry women give when the dead are brought back from batde; it is also the cry that rises from besieged cities, or that an army gives when it is surprised and takes to flight. The vanquished cry thus, as does a man unexpectedly struck and attacked; a kraugê is at once a cry of fear and a cry that causes fear. It puts the attacker to flight. In Thucydides, the kraugê and olologê of the Plataean women on a stormy, moonless night evoked phobos among the Thebans who have gotten into their town. The connection of the kraugê (a cry close to a noise) with fear suggests that we should place it in the set of images proper to panic. We can find confirmation of this in a note by Hesychius: to express the predisposition of certain horses to shy, the old lexicographer tells us, the Greek language included the word kraugias, derived from krauße, which was used for a steed agitated by noise.95 The uncontrollable agitation of a horse, as we know, is a particularly clear sign of panic.96 A second, more explicit confirma- tion is provided by the Suday which takes for granted a connection be- tween panic and the women's ritual exalting Pan "with a cry {meta kraugês) : panic hubbub is from this point of view comparable to a cultic celebration.

the festival in honor of Pan brought about an equilibrium, midway between panic and possession.
this equilibrium is not achieved by the exclusion of panic and possession, but rather by a ritual that evokes them, perhaps the better to gain control of their effects. Enchanting music (flutes, tambourines, rhythmic beating of the hands and feet), dances approximat- ing animal leaping, drunkenness, erotic excitement—all these are joined to fearful cries. Similarly, during the night the tumult that fills the cave, joyful though it be, nonetheless becomes a hubbub like that of panic. Pleasure and desire are at the heart of this festival, which in Menander prefigures a marriage. But they are inescapably mixed with anxiety. It is surely not only to keep the god awake, to bring him joy, that one must struggle against exhaustion until dawn. The pannuchis of Pan, an initiatory festival quite as much as a festival of pleasure, also works to exor- cize fears and phantasmata—that is to say, phenomena attributed either to the absence of the god or to his excessive presence." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:29 am

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"Pan brings with him fertility and its constant companions, beauty and wealth. Beauty and inner wealth are the philosophical prayer of Socrates in the famous invocation he speaks on the banks of the Ilissos in Plato's Phaedrus: "Friend Pan, and all who are gods of this place, grant me to become fair within. Let all that I have without be friendly to my inner state. May I believe the wise man rich. May I have such quantity of gold as would attract the trafficking only of the moderate man." But the gifts most proper to Pan, according to the inscription from Pharsalia previously cited, are laughter and good humor (a good spirit).

The text adds νβριν τε δικαίαν, "a just excess." Laughter and gaiety, prior to their philosophical interpretation, have a ritual function specified in the myth, according to which Iambe, whose jests restored to Demeter the will to live, was Pan's daughter. The goat-god's laughter, part and parcel of his sexual energy, openly invites man­ kind to renewed vital activity: care of infants, fertility of the fields, and fecundity of the flocks. This laughter belongs both to the goat-god and to those who celebrate his festival; it works to create or recreate com­ munication. It fits well with what Herodotos tells us about the ritual established at Athens: stirred, as we have seen, by something like re­ morse, and free of a war where its existence had been at stake, the city propitiates (hilaskontai) the god. The cult of Pan has something to do with a return to laughter

The krotos (sound of clapping), gelôs (laughter), and cuphrosunë (good humor) thus appear as constitutive elements of panic ritual, and this not only in the sense that festive gestures were an ordinary part of most Greek sacrifices. The same point can be made about the dance, which played a fundamental part in the cult of Pan. The god made his presence felt in the excited and turbulent chorus of his votaries. A cer- tain balance is achieved by the festival, which brings together in ritual the two extremes of Pan's potency, panic and possession, but in such a way that each shows only its positive aspect: the god is present without alienation and the distance between god and worshipper is kept to a minimum. By panic, Pan atomizes a social group (an army), fragments it, destroys its solidarity; by possession, he evicts the individual from his own identity. In his dance and festival, the individual, while remaining himself, loses himself. This is perhaps what the Pharsalian inscrip- tion cited earlier means by "just excess." The chorus simultaneously displays social solidarity with the extrasocial: it communicates with na- ture and the gods. The Epidaurus Hymn reminds us that Pan's music and dance restore a threatened cohesion. Dance, laughter, and noise become, in the festival, signs of a recovered closeness." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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"ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν." [Heraclitus]

"All that exists is just and unjust and equally justified in both." [Aeschylus, Prometheus]

"The history of everyday is constituted by our habits. ... How have you lived today?" [N.]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:29 am

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"The sailors of Salamis who in Sophocles' play have accompanied Ajax to Troy break into choric song when they suddenly, albeit mistakenly, come to believe that their king has recovered his sanity; they are carried away by hope and begin a joyful dance:

I shivered with love, in my joy I took wing. Ιο, Ιο, Pan, Pan! Ο Pan, Pan! who wanders the sea, from snow-covered Kyllene, your rocky peak, appear, Ο lord of the dances of the gods, so that you may be with me and draw me into the spontaneous dance of Mysia and Knossos. For now I am ready for the chorus.

The joy of a happiness once forgotten, now recovered, is so intense that a god is required to lead the dance; the goat-god will conduct them and inspire their gestures. God and man exchange in the dance a no-longer-hoped-for happiness. The transition from melancholy to joy is specially marked by Sophocles in his evocation of the journey of the god, who leaves harsh, icy Mount Kyllene and crosses the sea to the Troad, to his festival.

Pan is a god of tumult and animal disorder (panic and possession), yet Aeschylus tells us that he loves the dance (philochoros) and Pindar classes him as a "perfectly initiated dancer." Pan's dance (in a word) conjoins two terms of a transformation: before and after. The "perfectly initiated dancer" makes others dance and dances with them; his music calls forth harmony, that humane order in the dance of which Plato speaks. But he himself remains at the animal level; he leaps. Pan is called skirtôn (leaper) by an Attic vase inscription of the fifth century. Cornutus, author of a Stoic treatise On Greek Theology, would in the first century A.D. explain this by recourse to allegory: "His nature as a leaper and his love of play represent the eternal movement of the universe." Although this is obviously tendentious, it nevertheless interprets the traditional image of the god. Pan's dance, his animal leapings-about, are abundantly represented on Attic and Italian pottery of the classical era. It is sharply contrasted with the measured round dance of the nymphs as we see it on Attic reliefs and elsewhere.

Philostratos the Sophist, in his Eikones, imagines the scornful attitude of the nymphs toward Pan, whose leapings know no bounds. The goat-god always escapes from the balance, which he nevertheless invites. He retains contact with that prior sphere where things originate, and actually with the farthest part of it, with the frontier where directions reverse. He is the son of Hermes, and in his own way also a god of passages; his laughter, his erotic passion, his motions as of a young animal inaugurate a new order of things. Without him, we may suspect, peace when it concluded conflict would come as a dead letter, not growing into new harmony, but rather structured into rigidity." [Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:39 am

Liantinis wrote:
"For the Greeks, Pan symbolized the surge of desire in nature. His significance was that stirring in the depths of beings debilitating and hedonistic, binding together the charges of clouds, trees, beasts, men.
He was an incarnation quivering in the fiery stillness of desire. An unadulterated force of barbaric virility. He expressed instances of irrepressible sexual urges, those that overwhelm the grass and flowers as they burst and bloom in thousand fragrant colors each successive springtime.
Pan was a representation of the Libido of nature. He was a faithful reflection of the indomitable power of the animal instinct for life and being. To the point that only a handful of poets get a fleeting feeling of it and those who have heard death's beckoning.

Those who have heard death's quiet beckoning. For Pan was the god of goats but was also the god of rams. And these are raw material for the building blocks of tragedy. That extreme ethical and aesthetically achievement and cultural asset of the Greeks, that deals with life and death in equal measure.

The Greek god Pan personifies the spirit of the wild and the crude code of animal markings. He is protector of the scintillating whispers between stars, flittering over forests steeped in darkness. He reveals himself through the trembling of silver leaves as the white poplar tree sways in the wind. He pulsates with the rhythmic flapping of the wings of a butterfly in Peking, with California reaping the whirlwind.

With his eerie hunting group and his panic dear, Pan accompanies the paganism of the ancient world. He represents the web that unites the soul of man with the soul of the world in an endless nuptial hymn, bound together by the music of his magic flute. Its last reverberations still audible in the Hintengesang of Beethoven's Pastoral.
Pan was a multifarious and primordial deity. like Apollo with this apollonian, Dionysus with his dionysian, Zeus with his olympian element. The foundation of his fundamental character represented the dominant characteristic of the classical Greek: a type of anthropology that knew how to constantly thrive on nature's erection. On the incessant wax and waning of the moon. At the halo of the peak of the male member.

The death of Pan, together with the demise of the classical world, also signaled the death of man brought up by natural education.
Antiquity perished, and so did natural man. The new type of man that surfaced with Christianity and later with European civilization is unnatural, in the sense that his relationship is not with nature but with himself.

This transition or constriction parallels the evolution of tragedy. in Attic tragedy, man fought against his fate. In Shakespeare's tragedies, man fought against his fellow man. in modern tragedy, man fights against himself. the progression is from the open field to the city, from the city to the house, from the house to the room in the house.
The ancient Greeks, being natural men, bravely accepted what we today deny on the pretext of postponement. Yet we will never be able to affect the weather report by going on strike. Nor can we banish old age with the help of our institutions." [Gemma]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:40 am

Crowley wrote:
"Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ass, come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
Thrust the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token erect of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I rape and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !"

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:40 am

Shelley wrote:
Hymn of Pan

"From the forests and highlands
        We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
        Where loud waves are dumb
               Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
        The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
        The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
               Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,
        And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
        The light of the dying day,
               Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
        And the Nymphs of the woods and the waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
        And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
               With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,
        I sang of the daedal Earth,
And of Heaven, and the giant wars,
        And Love, and Death, and Birth—
               And then I chang'd my pipings,
Singing how down the vale of Maenalus
        I pursu'd a maiden and clasp'd a reed.
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
        It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed.
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
               At the sorrow of my sweet pipings."

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:40 am

Socrates wrote:
"Beloved Pan and all ye other gods who haunt this place, give me beauty in the inward soul, and may the outward and the inner man be at one."

Socrates wrote:
"Pan is the double-natured son of Hermes.
You know that speech makes all things (πᾶν) known and always makes them circulate and move about, and is twofold, true and false. the true part is smooth and divine and dwells aloft among the gods, but falsehood dwells below among common men, is rough and like the tragic goat1; for tales and falsehoods are most at home there, in the tragic life.
Then Pan, who declares and always moves (ἀεὶ πολῶν) all, is rightly called goat-herd (αἰπόλος), being the double-natured son of Hermes, smooth in his upper parts, rough and goat-like in his lower parts. And Pan, if he is the son of Hermes, is either speech or the brother of speech, and that brother resembles brother is not at all surprising. But, as I said, my friend, let us get away from the gods." [Cratylus, 408]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:45 am

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Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"WHEN the monotheism of consciousness is no longer able to deny the existence of fragmentary autonomous systems and no longer able to deal with our actual psychic state, then there arises the fantasy of returning to Greek polytheism. For the “return to Greece” offers a way of coping when our centers cannot hold and things fall apart. The polytheistic alternative does not set up conflicting opposites between beast and Bethlehem, between chaos and unity; it permits the coexistence of all the psychic fragments and gives them patterns in the imagination of Greek mythology. Legends, images, and theology attest to an irreconcilable conflict between Pan and Christ, a tension that has never ended in that the Devil with his horns and hooves and hair is none other than old Pan as seen in the Christian mirror. The death of one is the life of the other. This contrast appears again in the symbolization of their bodies, their geographies, their rhetorics. The one has the cave, the other the Mount; the one music, the other Word; Pan’s legs leap and dance, yet they are crooked, hairy, and goat-footed; Jesus’s legs are broken and stretched, his feet crossed and nailed. Jesus, the Good Shepherd; Pan, the obstreperous, unruly goat. Pan is naked and phallic; Jesus, circumcised, covered and asexual. In his famous essay “Culture and Anarchy,” Matthew Arnold defines this prejudice:

“The governing idea of Hellenism,” he writes, “is spontaneity of consciousness; that of Hebraism, strictness of conscience.” [7a] Therefore the spontaneous phenomena of Pan – panic, sexual urges, nightmares – are encountered moralistically. We are told to fight the good fight against bad impulses. Western history has left us with two equally repugnant alternatives. Either we worship an Arcadian Pan of sentimentalized Nature who offers liberation from that history, or we curse him as a pagan demon who threatens civilization with anarchic atavism and other excesses with psychological labels such as shadow, acting out, exhibitionism, or id. The way each of us responds to the calls of Pan and is guided by him into the territory of “Greece” depends largely upon the Christian twist within our deeply cherished attitudes. Thus it seems that the sole possibility for crossing the bridge into an imagination of antiquity requires us to set aside those prejudiced perspectives that we have ennobled as “civilized” and which go on repeating the death of Pan by both sentimental izing and demonizing him at one and the same time.

Rafael López-Pedraza has shown in his “Tale of Dryops and the Birth of Pan” that the revival of Pan and the realm we call the imaginal, mythical, and Greek begins with the manifestations of Pan in the private sphere of one’s own reactions to his phenomena: rape, masturbation, nightmare panic, seduction by nymphs, and other Pan-induced events that force us out of civilized habits. These are the modes by which Pan’s music reaches us today. These are the ways of the return, the epistrophe into imagination. Thus the return to Greece is neither a nostalgic idealization, an aesthetic romanticism, nor a distancing structuralist study of symbolism. Rather it is a descent into the cave.

Having placed Pan within the context of the return to Greece, now we must place the nightmare within the context of dream theory, particularly as it was develop ing a hundred years ago when Roscher’s monograph appeared. His monograph belongs among the works on dreams, which Freud reviews so carefully in the first section of his revolutionary Traumdeutung. The literature of this period generally falls into three kinds, indicating the three dis tinct approaches to the dream that were then current.

The first approach was materialistic; it held that the dream was an echo in the mind of physiological events in the body. Dream images were the psychological translation of physical events. Research investigated the physical origins of dreams in sensations of coldness, wetness, etc., in subliminal and forgotten perceptions, in nitrous oxide; so too, there were investigations upon the physiological states during dreaming in order to dis cover the basis of the dream in somatic events. The second view was rationalistic. It held that the dream made no sense at all, being a sort of derangement of the mental functions when they relaxed during sleep, like bits of mosaic falling apart without the cohesive cement of conscious willing and association. Thus dreams were akin to madness, a meaningless jumble of fragments that did not tell more about the person who dreamt them, but less. They were therefore not a proper subject for serious attention, let alone scientific investigation. The third, the Romantic view, can be found mainly in the works of poets, writers, and thinkers with a mystical bent – Novalis, Gérard de Nerval, Coleridge, Schubert, as has been discussed by Albert Béguin [9] The Romantic view reflects in poetic and philosophical language the older reli gious view of archaic and traditional peoples that during sleep the mind or soul is open to occult powers. The dream was an avenue of communication with the gods; in sleep the psyche wandered, received intuitions and messages, could meet the dead in the beyond. Therefore, dreams were a source of inspiration and knowledge. They held real personal significance.

One of Freud’s great accomplishments was to blend together these three contemporary illuminations of dream life into one brilliant theory. In agreement with the rationalists, he held that the dream did not make sense, prima facie. It was indeed nonsense on the manifest level, showing signs of dissociation, distortion, and condensation such as one finds in the products of the insane mind. However, like the Romantics, he thought that the dream could be deciphered; it contained a personal message with a meaning for the dreamer and was a via regia to “another world,” the unconscious. He also accepted in part the position of the materialists, for he found the ultimate purpose of the dream to be in the psychophysiology of sleep (protecting sleep) and its ultimate source in somatic stimuli (sexual tensions). Freud’s theory, by its very encompassing elegance, opened new perspectives while it eclipsed others, mainly the experimen tal and physiological. Today, the alternative approaches, which Freud united, are appearing again, and, as Freudian theory seems on the decline, no longer holding the mystical and the material together in a rational coherence, the trend seems to be moving out of the consulting room and back to the laboratory as the place for dream investigation. Perhaps we are again expecting a new synthesis, such as made by Freud in 1900, which can bind together the current interpretations of the dream as a manifestation of an archetypal substratum of the personality. Roscher’s study does suggest a movement in this direction, for he brings together fantasy and physical experience, dream and body reactions, behind both of which stands the figure of Pan. The archetype expresses itself as a pattern of behavior (panic and nightmare) and as a pattern of imagery (Ephialtes, Pan and his entourage). In other words, Roscher’s work also suggests a method for psychosomatic investigation based on archetypal psychology. Such investigations would give, as does Roscher, primary place to patterns of fantasy as precisely described by mythology.

Roscher’s approach to the nightmare takes off from the work of Ludwig Laistner. Laistner points to the erotic character of these dreams, comparable with Freud and Jones who later can reduce mythology and religion to psychological mechanisms connected with sexuality. Roscher, on the other hand, is primarily a mythologist who would not reduce the mythic to intrapersonal processes. Myth and religion are not reducible to dreams. They tell of each other, but they are not each other. Their tellings are myths and their connections with each other are by means of analogies, not because of a common root. Their base is not naturalistic, as Jones says, for nature is itself a metaphor; therefore, to understand the dream we must speak as it speaks, not in natural concepts but in images. Consequently, our fundamental metaphor in my essay, as well as in Roscher’s, whether it be for the dream or for Pan, is not “natural” but “imaginal.”" [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:48 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Roscher’s thesis, briefly is that the nightmare demon in antiquity is te great god Pan in any of his several forms, and that the experience of the nightmare demon then was similar to that reported in the psychiatry and psychology of Roscher’s own day. Having established this, Roscher leaves it. But we might go further, concluding that Pan is still alive. We experience him mainly through psychopathological disturbances, other modes having been lost in our culture. Because of the satyr-goat-phallus nature of Pan, both the panic anxiety of the nightmare and its erotic aspects can be subsumed by one and the same figure. In Roscher’s treatment of the figure, Pan is not a projected image, a kind of psychopathological complex created by fantasy to express sexual anxiety. His is a mythical reality. Although Roscher falls prey at moments to the rationalist-materialist view of the dream presented by Borner (that goat-haired bedclothes and dyspnea give rise to the Pan experience), this “explanation” of the nightmare nevertheless still rests upon the epiphany of Pan, who always remains as a vivid reality in the pages of Roscher. What emerges from his essay is the genius insight: the entanglement, the very unity of the mythological and the pathological.

When Roscher discusses panic and nightmare in animals, he shows his awareness of the instinctual level of the nightmare – particularly its sexuality. We see in his writing the same struggle with the “sexual problem” that was emerging at that time through many of his psychological contemporaries, Havelock Ellis, Auguste Forel, Ivan Bloch, and of course Freud, to say nothing of the work of the painters and writers at the end of the century who were rediscovering the phallic goat satyr in the deeper layers of human drive, and who, as did Freud with Oedipus and Roscher with Pan, expressed their insights in the configurations of Greek myth. Patricia Merivale, in her fine book, has collected a staggering assortment of examples of the nineteenth century’s devo tion to Pan, the period in literature that she says saw his heyday. Pan, by the way, has been the favorite Greek figure in English poetry; he outdistances his nearest rivals (Helen, Orpheus, and Persephone) in statistical appearance nearly two to one.

His original place, Arcadia, is both a physical and a psychic location. The “caves obscure” where he could be encountered (“The Orphic Hymn to Pan”) were expanded upon by the Neoplatonists as the material recesses where impulse resides, the dark holes of the psyche whence desire and panic arise.
His habitat in antiquity, like that of his later Roman shapes (Faunus, Silvanus) and companions, was always dells, grottos, water, woods, and wilds – ever villages, never the tilled and walled settlements of the civilized; cavern sanctuaries, not constructed temples. He was a shepherd’s god, a god of fishers and hunters, a wanderer without even the stability provided by genealogy. The lexicographers of myth give at least twenty parentages of Pan. He was possibly fathered by Zeus, Uranos, Kronos, Apollo, Odysseus, Hermes, or by Penelope’s crowd of suitors. Hence his is a spirit that can arise from most anywhere, the product of many archetypal movements or by spontaneous generation. One tradition has him fathered by Aether, the tenuous substance that is invisible yet everywhere, and which word first meant bright sky or weather associated with Pan’s hour of noon.

The main account from “The Homeric Hymn to Pan,” and the one given by Kerényi in his Gods of the Greeks, has Pan abandoned at birth by his wood-nymph mother, but wrapped in a hare’s pelt by his father Hermes (to be sired by Hermes emphasizes the mercurial element in Pan’s background). Hermes took the babe to Olympus where he was accepted by all (pan) the gods with delight. Especially Dionysus enjoyed him.

This one tale places Pan within a specific configuration. First, enwrapped in the skin of the hare, an animal particularly sacred to Aphrodite, Eros, the Bacchic world, and the moon, implies his investment with those associations. His initial garment means his initiation into their universe; he has been adopted by those structures of consciousness. Second, Hermes is his patron, giving Hermetic aspects to Pan’s actions. They can be examined for messages. They are modes of communication, connections that mean something. Third, Dionysus’s delight expresses the sympathy between them. These gods provide the archetypal cluster into which Pan fits and where we may most expect him to be constellated. The mythologems – “the abandoned child,” “wrapped in animal skin,” and “pleasing to the gods” – may be pondered a long while. Their exegesis, which comes through living their meanings in our lives, may tell us much about our Pan-like behavior during moments of weakness and lostness (abandonment), as well as about our erotic luxuria, for, within the little love gage that the hare was, lies concealed in the uncultivated wilderness of Pan. What starts soft turns rough, and beneath the rabbit’s fur lurks the goat. Yet the gods smile on our goatfooted child; they take it as a gift to the divine; they each find an affinity with it. Pan reflects them all.

As god of all nature, Pan personifies to our consciousness that which is all or only natural, behavior at its most nature-bound. Behavior that is nature-bound is, in a sense, divine. It is behavior transcendent to the human yoke of purposes, wholly impersonal, objective, ruthless. The cause of such behavior is obscure; it springs suddenly, spontaneously. As Pan’s genealogy is obscure, so is the origin of instinct. To define instinct as an inborn release mechanism, or to speak of it as a chthonic spirit, a prompting of nature, puts into obscure psychological concepts the obscure experiences that might once have been attributed to Pan.

The Pan experience is beyond the control of the willing subject and his ego psychology. Even where the will is most disciplined and the ego most purposeful, and I am thinking now of men in battle, Pan appears, determining through panic the outcome of the fray. Twice in antiquity (at Marathon and against the Celts in 277 BCE) Pan appeared and the Greeks had their victory. He was commemorated with Nike. The panic flight is a protective reaction even if in its blindness the outcome can be mass death. The protective aspect of nature that appears in Pan shows not only in his affinity for herdsmen, nor in the word root (pan) of “pastor,” “pastoral,” and pabulum (“nourishment”), but as well in his role in the Dionysus train where Pan carries the shield of Dionysus on the march to India.

In the Eros and Psyche tale told by Apuleius, Pan protects Psyche from suicide. The soul disconsolate, its love gone, divine help denied, panics. Psyche throws herself away, into the river that refuses her. In that same moment of panic, Pan appears with his reflective other side, Echo, and brings home to the soul some natural truths. Pan is both destroyer and preserver, and the two aspects appear to the psyche in close approximation. When we panic we can never know whether it may not be the first movement of nature that will yield – if we can hear the echo of reflection – a new insight into nature. As Reinhard Herbig says in his monograph, this god is always a goat, the goat always a divine force. Pan is not “represented” by a goat, nor is the goat “holy’’ to Pan; rather, Pan is the goatgod, and this configuration of animal-nature distinguishes nature by personifying it as something hairy, phallic, roaming and goatish. This Pan nature is no longer an idyllic display for the eye, something to walk through or long back to for sweetness. Nature as Pan is hot and close, his hairy animal smell, his erection, as if nature’s arbitrary wayward force and uncanny mystery were summed into this one figure.

The “union of god and goat” – the phrase is from Nietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy – signified for the post-Nietzschean world the Dionysian mode of consciousness and the final diseased insanity of its promulgator. But though Nietzsche was speaking overtly of the goat-god, “in Nietzsche’s biography,” writes Jung,  ”you will find irrefutable proof that the god he originally meant was really Wotan. Thus, in attempting to understand the union of god and goat, which, as Merivale states, is “the stable focal point of my investigations,”we must avoid confus ing it with the Dionysus of Nietzsche in whose background was the Germanic Wotan. Yet Nietzsche does penetrate one riddle of goat existence (and there are many, since the goat of the senex and the scapegoat and the Dionysian kid and the milk goat do not belong here) when he speaks of the horror of nature and the horror of individual existence. For the solitary goat is both the Oneness and the aloneness, a cursed nomadic existence in empty places, his appetite making them yet emptier, his song, “tragedy.” This is not the fat, jolly Pan of some statuary or the elfin piper we call Peter or the “deep emotional self “of D. H. Lawrence’s Pan, but the Pan of the Homeric hymn who in Chapman’s Renaissance translation is called “leane and lovelesse.”
The lechery, then, is secondary, and the fertility too; they arise from the dry longing of nature alone, of one who is ever an abandoned child and who in innumerable pairings is never paired, never fully changes the cleft hoof for rabbit’s paw. He is called “unlucky in love,” and we humans feel his sadness in nature’s melancholy. There is a mournful tone of pipes innature to which we retreat in romantic moments, yearning, lonely, and desperate. Pan may please the gods, but he never makes it to Olympus; he couples, but never wives; he makes music, but the muses favor Apollo.

TO grasp Pan as nature we must first be grasped by nature, both “out there” in an empty countryside, which speaks in sounds, not words, and “in here” in a startled reaction. (This pan no one has better recreated than D. H. Lawrence.) Uncanny as the goat’s eye, nature comes at us in the instinctual experiences that Pan personifies. But to speak of “personification” does the god injustice, since it implies that man makes the gods and that nature is an impersonal abstract field of forces, such as thought conceives it.

Whereas, the demonic shape of Pan turns the concept “nature” into an immediate psychic shock. Western philosophical tradition from its beginnings in the Pre-Socratics and in the Old Testament has been prejudiced against images (phantasia) in favor of thought-abstractions. In the period since Descartes and the Enlightenment conceptualization has held preeminence; the psyche’s tendency to personify has been disdainfully put down as anthropomorphism. One of the main arguments against the mythical mode of thinking has been that it works in images that are subjective, personal, sensuous. This above all must be avoided in Western epistemology, and so in descriptions of the forces of nature. To personify has meant to think animistic ally, primitively, pre-logically. The senses deceive; images that would relay truth about the world must be purified of their anthropomorphic elements. The only persons in the universe are human persons. Yet the experience of the gods, of heroes, nymphs, demons, angels and powers, of sacred animals, places, and things, as persons indeed precedes the concept of personification. It is not that we personify, but that the epiphanies come as persons.

Could we step back from our times, step out of the pretensions of the fearing ego who would bring every atom of nature under its control? Then we might realize again that we are not the source of personified gods. We do not make them up, anymore than we invent the sounds we hear in the woods, the hoof prints in the sand, the nightmare pressure weighing on our chests. For millennia and most everywhere, it was palpably evident that divine and daimonic figures appeared as persons. But the scientific Weltanschauung with its cut between observer and observed severed us from that witness, and its testimony became magical thinking, primitive belief, superstition, insanity. Since the imaginal figures still occasionally broke in among the brightest and best educated, as in nightmares, these figures had to be made up by us. They could not be allowed their autonomy, else the scientific universe itself could become a nightmare.
Classical scholarship, seduced by the reductive method of science, quickly joined in to explain these apparitions as “projections” and “illusions” made up “unconsciously” by the perceiver. So, we find still, in Phillipe Borgeaud‘s excellent monograph, an explanation of Pheidippides’s direct encounter with Pan (on this messenger’s run back to Athens from Marathon) as “only a projection of his wish.” “It is not hard to imagine his tension, depression, and exhaustion by the time when, on his third day of constant running, he encountered the god Pan.”

As the nightmare must derive from indigestion or a too-heavy quilt, so Pan must derive from physical dysfunction during a marathon run! Here scholarship not only fails its subject, it even denies the authority of the text [23] that it is explaining. Herodotus says Pan burst in on Pheidippides, cried out his name, and gave him a crucial message that saved Athens. The leaders of Athens believed Pheidippides, won the battle, and set up the Cult of Pan in Athens. Were the cunning and intelligent Greeks so deluded? Did all this come about because of the exhausted state of mind of a certain messenger who had a sudden bright idea and conjured up “Pan” to bless it with authority? In his brilliant, thorough, and devastating critique of reductive falsification of “what actually happened,” Charles Boer writes:

"[T]his was one of the greatest moments in the history of Western civilization, this apparition of a goat-footed God on the eve of a world-transforming battle, his message of help actually making a momentous difference in the course of events that led to the saving of democracy itself. It is just that no one today – especially professional mythologists – is permitted by the increasing constraints of the subject to take the story seriously anymore. Is the origin of democracy so small a matter, or is something wrong with mythologists? You can take Pan’s presence on the eve of Marathon “psychologically” (many ways), you can take it “symbolically,” you can even take it “historically” in a twisted way (in which you account for the fact of the result, but dismiss the cause as mistaken). But you cannot take it seriously. Something else (if anything at all) must have happened, the scholars say, then what Pheidippides said happened. … People on the other side of fifth-century Greece were of course privileged – and privileging! – to take Pan as the splendid imaginal reality he was. Imaginal figures were “visible” to them, heard by them, touched by them. They were not, at least in their eyes, “making this up.”"

Precisely this we learn from Roscher, in spite of himself. For Roscher, like his contemporaries (e.g., Ameling on personification), tended to conceive Pan as a composite embodiment of the rough and fearful qualities of nature, just as his charming nymphs were visions of nature’s tender, graceful, and lyrical seductiveness. But Roscher’s conceptual framework taken from empirical associationist psychology (ideas are bundles of sense perceptions) does not accord with what he discovered in the empirical reports about nightmare demons. They are not a reassembly of frightening qualities, personifications post hoc of bed-clothes sensations. They are vividly real persons.

Roscher’s monograph – by stressing the person of Pan – contributes to that rediscovery of the imaginal which came to be known as the psychology of the unconscious, one of whose essential methodological departures from philosophy and science has been its language of personification. A cry went through late antiquity: “Great Pan is dead!” Plutarch reported it in his “On the Failure of the Oracles.”

The saying has itself become oracular, meaning many things to many people in many ages. One thing was announced: nature had become deprived of its creative voice. It was no longer an independent living force of generativity. What had had soul, lost it; lost was the psychic connection with nature. With Pan dead, so, too, was Echo; we could no longer capture consciousness through reflecting within our instincts. They had lost their light and fell easily to asceticism, following sheepishly without instinctual rebellion their new shepherd, Christ, with his new style of managed care. Nature no longer spoke to us – or we could no longer hear.

As the human loses personal connection with personified nature and personified instinct, the image of Pan and the image of the Devil merge. Pan never died, say many commentators on Plutarch, he was repressed. Therefore as suggested above, Pan still lives, and not merely in the literary imagination. He lives in the repressed which returns, in the psychopathologies of instinct which assert themselves, as Roscher indicates, primarily in the nightmare and its associated erotic, demonic, and panic qualities.
Thus the nightmare indeed gives the clue to the re-approximation to lost, dead nature. In the nightmare, repressed nature returns, so close, so real that we cannot but react to it naturally, that is, we become wholly physical, possessed by Pan, screaming out, asking for light, comfort, contact. The immediate reaction is demonic emotion. We are returned by instinct to instinct.

Instinct is more a metaphor, even if in conceptual dress, than a concept. Perhaps it is an idea in the original sense of that term where it meant “to see,” so that by means of this word “instinct” we are able to see certain kinds of behavior, both looking upon it as an observer and looking into it, insighting it, as a participant.

Beyond the primary biological processes – tropisms, ingestion and elimination, reproduction, cell growth, division and death, etc. – animal life as behavior moves automatically between the two poles of approach and retreat. A basic polarity of organic rhythm has been presented again and again through the centuries. One and the same archetypal idea about the rhythm of natural life occurs in those pairs called at different times and by different theorists: accessum/recessum, attraction/repulsion, Lust/Unlust, diastole/systole, introversion/extroversion, compulsion/inhibition, fusion/separation, all-or-none, etc. Under the domination of “inborn release mechanisms” (as instinct is also often called), patterns of approach and retreat become compulsive, undifferentiated, unreflective.

The two opposing positions regarding instinct – that it is intelligent and that it is not – have been combined in Jung’s theory. He describes two ends to instinctual behavior: at the one, a compulsive archaic behavior pattern; at the other, archetypal images. Thus, instinct acts and at the same time forms an image of its action. The images trigger the actions; the actions are patterned by the images. Consequently, any transformation of the images affects the patterns of behavior, so that what we do within our imagination is of instinctual significance. It does affect the world, as alchemists, mystics, and Neoplatonists believed, but not quite in the magical way they believed. Because the images belong to the same continuum as instinct (and are not sublimations of it), archetypal images are parts of nature and not merely subjective fantasies “in the mind.”

The figure of Pan both represents instinctual compulsion and offers the medium by which the compulsion can be modified through imagination. By working on imagination, we are taking part in nature. The method of this work, however, is not as simple as it might seem, for it is not merely an activity of the conscious mind or will, though they play their roles. The modification of compulsive behavior requires another psychic function.

Already in the Orphic hymn (Taylor) we find compulsion in the description of Pan where he is twice given the epithet “fanatic,” and in the Homeric hymn (Chapman) we can read that he climbs ever higher “and never rests.” The same fanatic compulsion appears in the behavior attributed to him: panic, rape – and the nightmare.

The poles of sexuality and panic, which can instantly switch into each other or release each other, exhibit the most crassly compulsive extremes of attraction and repulsion. In the latter we blindly flee helter-skelter; in the former, just as blindly we close upon the object with which we would copulate. Pan, as ruler of nature “in here,” dominates sexual and panic reactions, and is located in these extremes. His self-division is presented in the Homeric hymn by his two “regions” – snowy, craggy mountaintops and soft valleys (and caves) – and mythologically by the chasing phallic Pan and the fleeing panicked nymph. Both belong to the same archetypal pattern and are its nuclei. These two foci of Pan’s behavior, representing the inherent ambivalence of instinct, also appear in his image, commented upon ever since Plato’s Cratylus (408c), which is rude, rustic, and filthy below, smooth and spiritually horned above." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:48 am

Hillman and Roschr wrote:
"The nature of fear.

That it is a so-called primary affect has been stated by psychologists since St. Thomas and Descartes and is still confirmed by physiologists and by biologists specializing in animal behavior. Cannon has it as one of the four fundamental reactions that he investigated, and Lorenz regards it as one of the four basic drive complexes.

The traditional Western approach to fear is negative. In keeping with the attitudes of our heroic ego, fear, like many other affects and their images, is first of all regarded as a moral problem, to be overcome with courage as Emerson might say, or Tillich’s “courage to be” in an “age of anxiety.” Fear is to be met and managed by the hero on his path to manhood, and an encounter with fear plays a major part in initiation ceremonies. Because our culture’s first reflection upon the psyche is habitually moral, the psychological value of fear tends to be prejudiced if not occluded from our perspectives altogether. So entrenched is the moral approach to psychological events that psychology has had to go to physiology and to the study of animals in order to find a path free of moralisms. Although physiology recognizes the protective function of fear, the emotion of fear is generally regarded to be either an accompaniment of instinctual flight patterns or these same patterns blocked or retained within the organism.

This inhibition of motoric behavior together with increased and prolonged excitation of the organism (vegetative nervous system and neuro-hormonal-chemical activation) is called “anxiety.”Simply, there are two faces to panic: lived out in relation to a stimulus and called fear; held in with no known stimulus and called anxiety. Fear has an object; anxiety has none. There can be panicky fear, a stampede, say; there can be panicky anxiety as in a dream. In either condition death can result.

The anxiety dream can be distinguished from the nightmare in the classical sense. The classical nightmare is a dreadful visitation by a demon who forcibly oppresses the dreamer into paralysis, cuts off his breath, and release comes through movement. The anxiety dream is less precise, in that there is no demon, no dyspnea, but there is the same inhibition of movement. A literary prototype of the anxiety dream, emphasizing an inhibited peculiarity of movement, occurs in the Iliad (Achilles in pursuit of Hector):

"As in a dream a man is not able to follow one who runs from him, nor can the runner escape, nor the other pursue him, so he could not run him down in his speed, nor the other get clear."

Some theorists of emotion would use the anxiety dream as evidence for their view that anxiety is inhibited fear, a flight pattern retained within the organism, as if instinct were divided into two pieces: action and emotion. During the anxiety dream, action being impeded, emotion intensifies. Anxiety, whether in dreams or not, remains in this rather positivist and behavioristic perspective a substitute, secondary, inadequate reaction. Could we take arms against the sea of troubles we would not be sicklied over.
Contemporary existential philosophy gives to anxiety, dread, or Angst a more intentional and oppressive interpretation. Angst reveals man’s fundamental ontological situation, his connection with not-being, so that all fear is not just dread of death, but of the nothing on which all being is based. Fear thus becomes the reflection in consciousness of a universal reality.

To further mix the contexts: let us say that the world of nature, Pan’s world, is in a continual state of subliminal panic just as it is in a continual state of subliminal sexual excitation. As the world is made by Eros, held together by that cosmogonic force and charged with the libidinal desire that is Pan – an archetypal vision most recently presented by Wilhelm Reich – so its other side, panic, recognized by the Buddha belongs to the same constellation. Again we come back to Pan and the two extremes of instinct. Brinkmann has already pointed to the bankruptcy of all theories of panic that attempt to deal with it sociologically, psychologically, or historically, and not in its own terms. The right terms, Brinkmann says, are mythological. We must follow the path cleared by Nietzsche whose investigation of kinds of consciousness and behavior through Apollo and Dionysus can be extended to Pan. Then panic will no longer be regarded as a physiological defense mechanism or an inadequate reaction or an abaissment du niveau mental, but will be seen as the right response to the numinous. The headlong flight then becomes a breakthrough, out of protected security into the “uncanny wilderness of elementary existence.” Panic will always exist because it is rooted in human nature as such. So its management, Brinkmann says, must also follow a ritual, mythological procedure of gestures and music. (One is reminded of the pipes in battle and that Pan’s instrument in many paintings is not a syrinx but more a trumpet.)

Roscher’s enumeration of animal panics does indeed remove the discussion from the level of the only human and psychological in the narrow sense to more universal hypotheses such as offered by the existentialists, the Buddhists and the archetypal psychology exhibited in Pan. If we take the evidence that Roscher cites of Pan’s terror to be a form of psychic infection attacking both man and animals, then we would seem to have an archetypal event that transcends the only human psyche, thereby placing the nightmare panic in a profound realm of instinctual experience which man shares at least with animals. With trees, stones, and the cosmos at large this sharing remains a speculation. If panic in animals is not substantially different from panic in man and if panic is at the root of the nightmare, then the Jones nightmare hypothesis is not enough. For even the boldest Freudian has not extended the universality of the Oedipus complex and of repressed incest desire/fear beyond the shepherd to the sheep. Freud’s psychological hypotheses stop with the human world (even if his metapsychology of Eros does urge us into the direction we are here taking). Roscher however points beyond the human to a wider area of panic phenomena.
The Freud/Jones hypothesis explains the nightmare intrapsychically: repressed desire returns as demonic anxiety. But Roscher opens the way for a mythological perspective: the demon instigates both the desire and the anxiety. They do not convert into each other, owing to Freudian censors and the mechanical hydrostatics of libido-damming and dream-distorting according to the formula:

The intensity of the fear is proportionate to the guilt of the repressed incestuous wishes that are striving for imaginary gratification, the physical counterpart of which is an orgasm – often provoked by involuntary masturbation. If the wish were not in a state of repression, there would be no fear, and the result would be a simple erotic dream.

From this we are led to believe that the nightmare is unhealthy, the result of a faulty psyche. To put the matter in a Reichean parody of an older idea: perfect orgasm driveth out fear. The view we are elaborating in this essay with its focus upon Pan and his role in the nightmare takes many of the same phenomena reported by Jones but sees them as evidence for another hypothesis. Anxiety is not a secondary result from subliminal sexuality; anxiety and desire are twin nuclei of the Pan archetype. Neither is primary. They are the sensuous qualifications of the more abstract poles of instinct, which moves between all-or-nothing, accessum-recessum, Lust and Unlust. Jones himself brings supportive evidence for the idea that anxiety and sexuality appear together, which would seem to controvert his own formula. Like Roscher he refers to Börner:

"Sometimes voluptuous feelings are coupled with those of Angst; especially with women, who often believe that the night-fiend has copulated with them (as in the Witch trials). Men have analogous sensations from the pressure exerted on the genitals, mostly followed by seminal emission."

"It is important in this connection to remember how frequent is a voluptuous trait in the Angst attacks of the waking state; indeed this often passes on to actual emission during the attack, a phenomenon to which attention was first drawn by Loewenfeld in the case of men, and by Janet in the case of women."

Since the times of Jones and the authors he relies upon, there has been prodigious energy directed toward investigating correlations between physiological sexuality and dreaming. We know today from laboratory observation of human dreamers that penile erections come and go during sleep rather rhythmically following the curve of dreaming. But these investigations rather than making the understanding of the relation between sexuality and dreaming simpler have convinced us all that the field is more complex than it was envisioned by Jones and Freud.

Anxiety and sexuality are words covering an immensely sophisticated range of experiences. Furthermore, these words cover experiences that are neither only actions or reactions, but are also metaphors for situations of consciousness governed by archetypal fantasies. For where panic is, there too is Pan. When the soul panics, as in the story of Psyche’s suicide, Pan reveals himself with the wisdom of nature. To be fearless, without anxieties, without dread, invulnerable to panic, would mean loss of instinct, loss of connection with Pan. The fearless have their shields; they have constructions preventing emergencies, the startle pattern held at bay by means of systematic defenses.

In other words, to borrow the formula style from Jones, panic and paranoia may show an inverse proportion. The more susceptible we are to instinctual panic, the less effective our paranoid systems. Further, as first corollary, the dissolution of any paranoid system will release panic. As second corollary, psychoanalytic statements about paranoia and the fear of homosexuality can be expanded beyond the erotic to include the implied other nucleus of the Pan archetype, panic. And, as third corollary, any complex that brings on panic has not been integrated into a construction and should not be. Therefore any complex that brings on panic is the via regia for dismantling paranoid defenses. This is the therapeutic way of fear. It leads out of the city walls and into open country, Pan’s country. Panic, especially at night when the citadel darkens and the heroic ego sleeps, is a direct participation mystique in nature, a fundamental, even ontological, experience of the world as alive and in dread. Objects become subjects; they move with life while one is oneself paralyzed with fear. When existence is experienced through instinctual levels of fear, aggression, hunger, or sexuality, images take on compelling life of their own. The imaginal is never more vivid than when we are connected with it instinctually. "Nature Alive” means Pan, and panic flings open a door into this reality.

Rocher’s article on Pan in the Lexikon states that Pan invented masturbation. Roscher refers to Ovid’s Amores 1.5.1 and 26 and to Catullus 32.3 and 61.114. But the principal source is Dio Chrysostomus (ca. 40–112 CE), who in his sixth oration refers to Diogenes for witness. (Diogenes was the Greek Cynic philosopher who supposedly masturbated in public.)
A second, indirect connection between Pan and masturbation is brought out by Jones through an etymological analysis of mare (also discussed by Roscher), the “crusher” or oppressive night fiend retained in our word nightmare. Jones sees the meanings of the MR root to have “an unmistakable allusion to the act of masturbation.”

The sum of information we have on masturbation shows it to be historically and anthropologically a widespread practice. We know also that it occurs in certain higher animals (not only in captivity) and that it extends in the biography of a person from infancy into senility, that is, before other genital activities begin and often long after they have lapsed. In adults, masturbation runs parallel with so-called sexual behavior, never being a mere substitute for it. It is discovered spontaneously (by animals, infants, and small children); furthermore, it is the only sexual activity performed mostly alone. We are not dealing here merely with an eruptive sexual urge that occurs in solitude to hunters, fishers, warriors, herdsmen, and their lonely wives; we are not merely mythologizing what we fantasy about the sexual habits of shepherds during their noonday rest; nor is this association of Pan with masturbation another way of stating that the devilish inhuman goat in human nature will have its out no matter how. Rather the assignation of masturbation to pan is psychologically appropriate, even necessary, since masturbation provides a paradigm for those experiences we call instinctual, where compulsion and inhibition join.

Deprived of its fantasy, shame and conflict, masturbation becomes nothing but physiology, an inborn release mechanism without significance for the soul. This widely held notion and its physiological converse simplifies both masturbation and Pan. Both are a complexity of opposites in which the moment of inhibition is as strong as the compulsion. These opposites of Pan appear in the activity itself: either we retreat in fear from masturbating, pervaded by shame or frightening fantasies, or we shift from fear into courage by exciting our own genitals. Masturbation alleviates anxiety – as well as causing it, too, on another level. Fear of the evil eye was met, and is still met in some societies, by genital manipulations or at least genital signs. We ward off fear by touching sexuality, thereby propitiating Pan who invented masturbation and panic both. Note bene: the sexuality that wards off fear is not coitus, i.e., connection with another, or even with an animal, but masturbation.

Furthermore, the fantasy factor appears in Pan as the configurations of his entourage, the exfoliation of nature, the water, caverns, and the noise of which he is fond (as well as his silence), his dance and music, his frenzy. The conscience factor manifests in hiding and retreat and in what our concepts call the “laws of nature,” the rhythmical self-inhibition of sexuality. Human self-inhibition is less apparent than in animals whose sexual periodicity is clearly marked. Ours is more subtle, more psychic, and probably reflects first in fantasy and in the archetypal basis of conscience. Therefore when regarding masturbation, let us bear in mind its psychological significance. If psychological events have their bases in archetypal dominants, then behavior always has meaning, and the more archetypal (instinctual) the behavior, the more primordially significant it must be. To see the regression and not the significance is a blindness therapy may not allow itself. Masturbation is a way of enacting Pan.

By intensifying interiority with joy – and with conflict and shame – and by vivifying fantasy, masturbation, which has no purpose for species or society, yet brings genital pleasure, fantasy, and conflict to the individual as psychic subject. It sexualizes fantasy, brings body to mind, intensifies the experience of conscience and confirms the powerful reality of the introverted psyche – was it not invented for the solitary shepherd piping through the empty places of our inscapes and who reappears when we are thrown into solitude? By constellating Pan, masturbation brings nature’s urgency and complexity back into the opus contra naturam of soul-making." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:49 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Like masturbation, rape is psychological behavior, and so it deserves psychological attention. Like masturbation and panic, it also exemplifies the relation between mythology and pathology.

By seeing Pan in panic, masturbation, and rape, we restore both the god to life and life to the god. without Saturn and Dionysus, depression and hysteria become only psychiatric diagnoses. We lose sight that, though syndromes are sufferings, they belong to a wider pattern. In each of these situations the modern mind has tended to see the pathology before the psychology, forgetting that the sickness is a part of significance. The pathos is part of psyche and has its logos. The pathological – however drivenly distorted and concretistic – nevertheless belongs to soul-making.

Pan goes after nymphs, that is, rape aims at a form of indefinite consciousness located still in nature but not personally embodied. This consciousness is still only-natural, just as Pan’s drive is only natural. The nymph is still attached to woods, waters, caves, wispy figments, mistiness; she is chaste, nature still intact, a maiden (see below, “Pan’s Nymphs”).

Pan brings body, goat-body. He forces the sexual reality of physical generation upon a structure of consciousness that has no personal physical life, whose life is all “out there” in impersonal nature. Pan’s assault suddenly turns nature into instinct. Rape makes it intimate. Rape brings it “in here” from “out there.” The impersonal enters from below into the very private body, bringing an awareness of the impersonal as a personal experience. As such, rape is a horror because it is an archetypal transgression. It forcibly crosses between two unrelated structures of consciousness, whose distance from each other is stated in the language of opposites: old woman/young man, young girl/old man, virgin/lecher, white/black, native/foreigner, old inmate/young punk, soldier/civilian, master/slave, beauty/beast, upper class/lower-class, barbarian/bourgeois. But this transgression is also a connection between these structures. Rape puts the body’s drive toward soul into a concrete metaphor. It presses the soul into concreteness. It forcibly ends the division between behavior and fantasy, violating the soul’s privileged distance to live life through reflection and fantasy. To interpret the transgression rape as aggression is archetypally wrong. Aggression is insignificant in the constellation of Pan. He does not beat or throttle the obscure objects of desire; no gun or knife-blade belong to his threat. Pan’s rape, like Pan’s nightmare, is a close encounter with the animal force of the body. His assaults and our rapes mimetic to them are not aggressions; they are compulsions. They are not so much attacks to destroy the object as they are a clutching need to possess it.

The language of rape usually speaks of deflowering, the paradigm for which is Persephone picking flowers when seized by Hades. Deflowering too must be taken metaphorically for we are not speaking of the hymen rupture of actual virgins, but of flower consciousness broken through and its death. How few actual rapes are of actual virgins, yet in fantasy all are virgins, whether sisters, daughters or nuns, whether young boys, schoolgirls, or old maids, or freshly jailed first-time “offenders.” The fantasy of defloration and virginity appears together with rape. Empirically this association makes little sense; psychodynamically it is a secondary elaboration and not essential. But, archetypally, the association of rape and virginity is necessary for it shows that the behavior is ruled by the fantasy of Pan and the nymphs. On the one hand, the untouched, a consciousness without bodily senses; on the other hand, the toucher, the touching sensuous body. Touch, contact, connection-this is crucial to the metaphor which so dwells on body language. Pan, who is sometimes called the invisible, is nonetheless envisioned most physically as raper. He is called jumping, bold, barbarous, ferocious, rough, unwashed, hairy, black Pan. These epithets in Latin were given to Pan.

Legally, rape is necessarily neither coitus nor ejaculation. These essentials of the sexual act do not define rape legally. Even the law recognizes in a sinister way that rape is something over and beyond actual sexuality. The true transgression is the connection on the genital level between two structures of human existence that have different ontological status.

Pan the raper is a potential within every sexual impulse. Every erection may release him, implying a need for psychic deflowering. As psychologists we must first see this fact before we accuse it or defend it. Some necessity of the psyche can convert an impulse into a rape fantasy, or even produce a rape fantasy without sexual arousal. There is an attempt at transgression going on, an attempt to move across from one level to another, bringing sex and death to a part of the soul that is altogether resistant to this kind of awareness. Euripides describes a rape as a “panic marriage.”

Pan grabs, seizes, couples. The violence compares with the nightmare demon whose visit is unbidden, covers the sleeper, stopping the breath that cuts the victim off from the airy element, pneuma. Despite the panic, the coupling is nonetheless a “marriage,” a uniting of fates. The fateful encounter is hardly a human marriage of persons, for this union joins a monstrous impulse with wounded innocence.
Pan the raper will be conjured up by those virginal aspects of consciousness that are not physically real, that are “out of touch,” unsensed. Feelings and thoughts that remain wispy and flighty, that still are cool, remote, reflective will call rape upon them. They will be assaulted again and again by concretisms. Pure reflections will be raped again and again in order to bring them into behavior. The raper chasing the virgin is another way of putting behavior in search of fantasy to cool its compulsion. The loathing of the virgin is another way of putting fantasy’s fear of physical behavior. But the virgin’s violation is inevitable whenever the boundaries are drawn too tight between fantasies too removed from body and fantasies wholly immersed in body. Then the concrete metaphor of “forced genital juxtaposition” is constellated re-uniting fantasy and behavior.

The psychodynamic idea of compensation would express this idea by saying that the concrete bears in on one – as rape, panic, or nightmare – when consciousness is too ethereal, ephemeral. The concrete compensates for distance from physical life, which is represented in concentrated paradigm by the genitals. But psychodynamics, while trying to put events back into the psyche, gets them back only into the ego. These horrors (rape, panic, nightmare) are said to happen because the ego is doing something wrong. The inrush of the numinous power becomes only a psychic mechanism to correct the ego. Explanations in terms of compensation forget that the experience is altogether transpsychological. It comes as the numinous. Pan’s arrival is uncaused, sui generis. He irrupts. Yet this emphasis on the concrete in psychodynamics has importance if we take it phenomenologically, letting go of the theory of balancing opposites. Phenomenologically, rape, panic, and nightmare embarrass consciousness with concreteness, and thus always strike us as psychopathological: the events are so literal. Again, the psychopathology resides not in what happens but in the how, the concrete metaphor of the happening. Rape, panic, and nightmare belong where anxiety and sexuality are taken so concretely that the psyche has already become a victim, caught, oppressed, its freedom lost. The horror has already begun.

From the perspective of the nymph’s consciousness rape will always be horror. This horror, too, is archetypally authentic and therefore this horror is significative and not merely a prissy resistance and a symptom of anxiety. Horror warns. It tries to keep a structure of consciousness intact. Reflective consciousness is in danger of being overwhelmed (vergewaltigt = rape in German) and violated (viol = rape in French) by the very physical world that it reflects. Reflective consciousness turns away. This is its natural movement, for reflection too is instinctual.

To keep its reflective structure untrammeled, this aspect of consciousness must not let the nightmare that is nature get on top of it and cover it. Nature’s nightmare side is the suffocating oppressive concretism expressed by the epithets of Pan and in the experience of Ephialtes. But – con cretism occurs in every literal question we put to someone, in every thrust of hardheaded advice, every penetrating interpretation about how to live and what to do. We rape and are raped not only sexually. The sexual is but a metaphor for moving “from belong” (reductively) into someone’s personal intimacy in a crude and “only natural” manner. Nothing constellates these transgressions across the border more than do innocent questions from the simplistic nymphic mind. Con cretism obscures the light and blocks the movement of fantasy. From this perspective, defloration means not penetration and transformation but a broken soul. From this perspective a pure spark of reflective light must be kept intact at all costs. A spontaneous insight gives the freedom to move away from nature’s oppression and igniting the capacity to imagine life and not only to be driven by it.

In alchemy the transformation of compulsive sulfur requires a substance equal to it (mainly salt, but also and by means of mercury, an evasive psychic substance that is the true instrument of change). The operator’s mind and will play a role subsidiary to the effects of one substance upon another. So, too, in the changes represented by myth, a mythologem equal to Pan is required.

In mythology, Pan wants nymphs. We have seen that Pan divides between mountaintop and grotto, between noise and music, between hairy thighs and spiritual horns, between headlong panic and headstrong rape. Another instance, and one more imaginative and appealing, is Pan and his partners, the nymphs. Roscher’s etymological and “natural” explanation of nymphs takes them as personifications of the wisps and clouds of mist clinging to valleys, mountain sides and water sources, veiling the waters and dancing over them. And indeed Homer says that is where the nymphs live. In the same volume, Bloch refuses Roscher’s hypothesis by saying that the word in Greek mythology means nothing else than “mature maiden” or “miss,” corning from swelling as does a bud, and rather like our “nubile,” but not “nebulous.” W. F. Otto, in his chapter on the nymphs, agrees that the word means girl or bride, but connects them mythically first of all with Artemis and the Greek feeling of Aidos, shame, a modest bashfulness, a quiet respectful awe within nature and toward nature. He describes this feeling as the opposite pole to the overwhelming convulsiveness of Pan (god of epilepsy). The nymphs belong to the same inscape of our interior nature as does Pan." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:51 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Selene: her unsurpassed beauty, her eye that saw all things happening below; her rule of menstruation, the orderly rhythm of female instinct; her gift of dew, the cooling moisture; her relation with epilepsy and healing; the veil that kept her partly hidden, indirect; the torch she carried and the light-bestowing diadem she wore; the obscure cave from which she rose and in which she set. For his conquest of the moon, it is said that Pan had to disguise his black and hairy parts with white fleece. This is the language of alchemy, corresponding to the movement from nigredo to the albedo of lunar consciousness. What is resistant to light, obscure and driven, suffering nature in ignorance, turns white and reflective, able to see what is going on in the night. Lunar consciousness can be swept away by a Pan; it can be convulsed and can panic, faint, and collapse. The lunar state is particularly vulnerable to Pan, just as Pan is particularly attracted to it. This we have already seen above in regard to rape. Here, it is reaffirmed, for Pan makes his most vivid impression as Ephialtes in dreams which traditionally belong to the Moon. And there in nightmares his lunatic nature appears especially. Pan was one of the gods directly associated with lunacy, as the nymphs were a cause of madness (nympholeptoi).

In the Syrinx tale Pan pursues the possibility of reflection, which, by ever-receding, transforms into its instrument. The music of the Syrinx is the self-consciousness that inhibits and transforms the compulsion. Instead of rape on the riverbank, there is plaintive piping, song, and dance. The compulsion is not sublimated, however, but expressed in and through another image, for song and dance are also instinctual. Through the syrinx the noise Pan is fond of becomes music, the tumult, a measured step; patterns elaborate; there is space, distance and air, like the soughing of the wind in the pine. Like Echo, who provides the feminine receptivity of the ear and of recalling, the music made through Pan’s pipes offers a musing fantasy that inhibits compulsion. Pan’s sexual compulsion seems wholly directed towards the end of reflection. Remember: Pan is not a father god, his offspring being mythologically insignificant. His generative is of another sort. These tales tell us that instinctual nature itself desires figures and fantasies to make it aware of itself. No new principle is introduced, no corrective of compulsion from above or outside the configuration of Pan himself. He seeks an intangible other pole – a mere reed, a sound, an echo, the pale light, the muse’s nurse – a helpful awareness through the dark of concretistic sexuality and panic. Pan tells us that the strongest longing of nature “in here” (and maybe “out there” as well) is towards union with soul in awareness, an idea we have already seen prefigured in masturbation and conscience. The “other” whom Pan chases so compulsively is none other than his own nature, his own soul, reflected, transposed to another key.

The key is music. Sound. Syrinx, Echo, and Pitys – who sighs (Nonnus) or moans when the wind blows through the pine trees are the sounds of nature. The nymphs reflect nature to the ear. They teach listening, and listening stops compulsion. If Pan contains an elemental kind of reflection, then we should expect to find reflection also in his own imagery and exemplified not only in the nymphs. And this we do find. Besides the music and dance, there are his shielding protective activities. Besides the Nike link with Athene – having Penelope for a mother and/or Ulysses for a father, as told by some traditions, implicates Athene – there is the fathering seed of Hermes (or Zeus, Apollo, Cronus, Uranus, Aether, or Ulysses, each of whom presents a mode of reflective spirit). Moreover there is the motif of his early rising, his appearance on vase paintings together with the dawn, the breakthrough of day." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:52 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Pan appears in the representations of art again and again as an observer. There he stands, or sits or leans or crouches, amidst events in which he does not participate but where he is instead a subjective factor of vital attention. Wernicke says he serves to waken the interest of the onlooker, as if when we look at a painting with Pan in its background, we are the observing Pan.

Pan the observer is shown us most strikingly in those images of him with his hand raised to his forehead, gazing into the distance: Pan the “far-seeing,” the “sharp-eyed,” the herdsman above the herd, on guard, watching. Within the physical intensity of Pan there is a physical attentiveness, a goat’s consciousness. The consciousness is not Olympian, because it is not an embodiment of superior detachment. His reflection is in connection with the herd, the awareness identical with the physical signals of nature “in here.” The reflection is in the erection, in the fear, an awareness that is nature bound, as are the nymphs to their trees and rivulets, blind yet intuitive, farseeing yet immediate. Pan reflects altogether in the body, the body as instrument, as when we dance, and for which Lawrence used the metaphor of the Red Indian. This is a consciousness moving warily in the wisdom of fear through the empty places of our inscapes, where we do not know which way to take, no trail, our judging only by means of the senses, never losing touch with the flock of wayward complexes, the small fears and small excitations. This body consciousness is of the head, but out of the head, lunatic, more like the spirit in the horns. (And the moon has horns.) It is not mental and figuring out; it is a reflection, but neither after nor even during the event (in the manner of Athene). Rather it is the manner in which an act is carried through, appropriate, economical, a dance style. As Pan is one with the nymphs, so his reflection is one with behavior itself. Rather than an epistemic subject who knows, there is the animal faith of pistis, surefooted like a goat.

The path of Pan can still be “Let nature be your guide,” even where wild nature “out there” is vanishing. Nature “in here” can nevertheless be followed even through the cities and domestications, for the body still says “yes” or “no,” “not this way, that,” “wait,” “run,” “let go,” or “move in now and have it.”

What more could we wish from prophecy than this immediate body awareness of how, when, and what to do. Why ask for grand visions of redeemers and the fall of civilizations; why expect prophecy to come with a long beard and thunderous voice. That is too easy, the pronouncements too loud and clear. The prophet is also an interior figure, a function of the microcosm, and thus prophecy may sound no stronger than an intuition of fear or a jet of desire.
Plutarch placed his story about the death of Pan in a discussion about why the oracles had become defunct. With the death of Pan, the maidens who spoke out the natural truths were no more either, for the death of Pan means as well the death of nymphs. As Pan eventually turned into a Christian devil, so the nymphs became witches, and prophecy became sorcery. Pan’s messages in the body became calls from the devil; any nymph who evoked such calls could be nothing but a seductive witch. Pan’s kind of consciousness is inherently mantic, from the ground up, so to speak.

It was from Pan that Apollo learned the art before he took over Delphi from Themis. The nymphs excite to a madness, both to nympholepsy and to the prophetic gift. The nymph Erato was prophetic at Pan’s Arcadian oracle, and Daphnis, the name of Pan’s shepherd love, was promantis at the oldest of all Delphic oracles, that of Gaia. The list is long of those turned mad by nymphs or gifted by them with mantle powers. Pan and the nymphs therefore played their part in a special kind of mantics, those that healed. The waters and places beneficial for physical restoration had their spiritus loci, usually a nymph. According to Bloch, the nymphs brought about healing, madness and prophecy by their effects upon fantasy. As Otto says, the nymphs are preformations of the muses. The nymphs excite imagination, and one still turns to nature (instinctual in here or visible out there) to kindle imagination.

There is no access to the mind of nature without connection to the natural mind of the nymph. But when nymph has become witch and nature a dead objective field, then we have a natural science without a natural mind. Science devises other methods for divining nature’s mind, and the nymph factor becomes an irregular variable to be excluded. Psychologists then speak of the anima problem of the scientist. But the nymph continues to operate in our psyches. When we make magic of nature, believe in natural health cures and become nebulously sentimental about pollution and conservation, attach ourselves to special trees, nooks, and scenes, listen for meanings in the wind and turn to oracles for comfort – then the nymph is doing her thing.
The archetypal nymph continues to appear in the findings of clinical research into nightmare prone people. Ernest Hartmann’s work at Tufts University concludes that nightmare sufferers are “people whose sense of boundary is soft and undefined. They find it difficult to keep fantasy and reality separate … They do not have a firm, clear idea of their own identity.”

The nymph in the modem soul has made the modern cult of Pan; if Pan lived vividly in the literary imagination, especially of the nineteenth century, then so did the nymph. That recrudescence of Pan may be seen altogether as a product of the nymphic imagination, an anima style of consciousness that hovered in nubile not-yetness and horror of sexuality, in fainting, in the neurasthenic retreats into the vegetative nervous system of the misty Victorian England of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Her first rapture on Pan was written when she was herself a nymphet of eleven or twelve. Another encounter of a Victorian with the nymph can be read in Clifford Allen’s paper on John Ruskin.

In every nymph there is a Pan, in every Pan a nymph. Rawness and shyness go together. We cannot be touched by Pan without at the same time fleeing from him and reflecting upon him. Our reflections about our impersonal, filthy, gross sexuality, and our delight in it, are echoes in us of the nymph. The nymph still makes us feel shocked, and lascivious. And when goaty feelings and fantasies break out in the midst of daydreams, Pan has again been evoked by a nymph. In each of the stories of Pan and the nymphs, including the one of his birth – for Dryope, his mother in the Homeric hymn, was a wood nymph – the nymph flees in panic from Pan. Now Pan is not the only one to make nymphs flee. Flight is essential to nymphic behavior. Think of the chases of Zeus and Apollo and Hermes." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:53 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Let us put together Pan’s compulsions (panic and rape) with the feminine object of his compulsion. Let us recapitulate the relation between instinct and inhibition. It was believed that Pan himself was in panic when the animals ran, and that this vision of Pan’s panic set the world in terror. It is as if Pan was himself a victim of nightmares, epileptoid convulsions, and the horror that he brings. The god is what he does; his appearance is his essence. In one and the same nature is both the power of nature and the fear of that power.

Fear is a call to consciousness. The nymphs show this fear in their panicked flight. They are thus showing one of nature’s ways, flight, which is one of the four primary instinctual reactions described by ethnologist Konrad Lorenz. Psychologically, flight becomes reflection (reflexio), the bending backward and away from the stimulus and receiving it indirectly through the light of the mind. As Jung says about this instinct:

"Reflexio is a turning inwards, with the result that, instead of an instinctive action, there ensues a succession of derivative contents or states which may be termed reflection or deliberation. Thus in place of the compulsive act there appears a certain degree of freedom …
The richness of the human psyche and its essential character are probably determined by this reflective instinct. Reflection reenacts the process of excitation and carries the stimulus over into a series of images which, if the impetus is strong enough, are reproduced in some form of expression. This may take place directly, for instance in speech, or may appear in the form of abstract thought, dramatic representation, or ethical conduct; or again, in a scientific achievement or a work of art.
Through the reflective instinct, the stimulus is more or less wholly transformed into a psychic content, that is, it becomes an experience: a natural process is transformed into a conscious content. Reflection is the cultural instinct par excellence …"

Here Jung has conceptualized the archetypal mytheme of Pan’s chase and the nymph’s flight.

In both we find the transformation of nature into reflection, into speech, art, and culture (Eupheme and the Muses). The base of this transformation is the power of images released by the flight reaction. In a sense, culture begins in Pan’s compulsion and the flight from him.

Lest we give too much to reflection – for alone it is sterile – let us keep reflection close to its prototype, fear. There consciousness and culture are instinctually rooted. When reflection is rooted in fear, we reflect in order to survive. It is no longer just mental reverie or contemplative knowledge.
By emphasizing the importance of the fear-flight-reflection complex we are deliberately diminishing the usual major role of love in creating culture. Eros does not seek reflection in the same compulsive way as Pan. Rather, love would abjure reflection that impedes its course; love would be blind. Even when its aim is Psyche as in the Apuleius tale, there is a distinct difference between Eros and Dionysus, on the one hand, and Pan, on the other.

For one thing, Pan is active, the nymphs passive; the maenads are active to Dionysus’s sombre quietness. For another, Eros is not a nature figure as much as he is a daimon. He is often winged with unpronounced genitals, whereas Pan is often a goat with an erection. The metaphor of Eros is less concrete, physical; his intentions and emotions are different in quality and physical locus. In contrast to Pan’s chases, there are no stories as such (excepting that told by Apuleius) of his loves. He is usually the agens, not the agonist. In both Eros and Dionysus, psychic consciousness seems to be present and active (maenads, Psyche, Ariadne), but in Pan instinct is always in search of soul. A way of looking at this cluster is to follow the tradition which places both Eros and Pan in the train of Dionysus, as subsidiaries of that cosmos. A long tradition of wall and vase paintings shows Eros and Pan wrestling, to the amusement of the Dionysian circle. The contrast between the clean stripling Eros and the hirsute awkwardness of rustic paunchy Pan, with victory to Eros, was moralized to show the betterment of love to sex, refinement to rape, feeling to passion. Moreover, the victory of Eros over Pan could be philosophically allegorized to mean “Love conquers all.”

This opposition I see also in terms of love versus panic, but not in the Christian sense of love overcoming fear. The issue here is not who conquers whom and the morals that can be derived from this victory. Rather the issue is the contention between the way of Pan and the way of love. The death of Pan supposedly coincided with the rise of love (the Christ cult). Perhaps, the recognition of Pan as a psychic dominant implies a lessening of the tributes we pay to love, whether as Eros, Christ, or Aphrodite.

Love plays no part in Pan’s world of panic, masturbation, rape, or in his chase of nymphs. These are not love stories; these are not tales of feelings and human relationships. The dance is ritual, not a couple moving together; the music sounds the uncanny pipes of Mediterranean tones, not a love song. We are out of the cosmos of Eros altogether, and instead there is sexuality and fear. Perhaps this explains why our civilization has such trouble with masturbation and rape. They could not be fitted into a world of love. When judged from love’s perspective, they become pathological.

We must then draw the conclusion that the realm of love does not include all the instinctual factors of human nature, just as the figure Eros is only one god among many. Eros does not provide appropriate guiding images for areas of our behavior governed by Pan. To go on judging our Pan behavior in the light of love continues a suppression of instinctual qualities and an enmity towards nature that cannot but have psychopathological results. The struggle between Eros and Pan, and Eros’s victory, continue to put Pan down each time we say a nightmare is a bad dream, rape violates relatedness, masturbation is inferior to intercourse, love better than fear, the goat uglier than the hare. Certainly rape is more violent, the nightmare more dreadful, masturbation more solitary, and the goat more smelly than the usual harmonies of civilized domestication. But phenomena that disrupt the usual are not ipso facto morally repugnant. If all things are full of gods, as Euripides is said to have said, then all things have their divine backing and are governed by Necessity. Even the Bible says:
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every desire under heaven.”

Moral judgments made inside the walls of civilization and the laws protecting the citizen cannot do justice to outsider phenomena whose range is often “way out.” The pulpit must condemn and the law incarcerate the rapist, but the psychologist’s task is different. We must try to see phenomena in their own right, bracketing out our civilized commitments. The psychologist has one foot outside the wall. Finally, the insights drawn from the relation of Pan and the nymphs can correct the Christian idea of Pan as god of unbridled pagan sexuality to be controlled by Judeo-Christian prohibitions whether through love or law. If the nymphs and Pan are one, then no prohibition is necessary. An inhibition is already present in the compulsion itself. Thus, sexual passion is both holy and one aspect of reflection, as Lawrence insisted. Animal desire brings with it its own shame, its own piety.

"… in composite gods the tension between chastity and passion, or penitence and pleasure, which is generally associated with the conflict between Christianity and paganism, was revealed as a phase of paganism itself."" [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:55 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Are you not security obsessed, seat-belted against surprise, medicated against panic attacks? And what have you done to save the nymphs, the tiny differentiated sounds of nature, nature’s little night music? Parks, resorts, golf courses, and well-marked trails – no nymphs there, no risk of swooning at the earth’s beauty. No risk of panic either.” Science fears the return to Pan “in here.” Since Pan is Ephialtes and the nightmare, he is unpredictable and amoral.
His urges live in the barren places of the psyche where the mind of civil engineering makes no inroads. He hides in the psyche’s caves, the soul’s wilderness. His promptings to rape, to masturbate, to take flight in panic are alive in the most well-regulated civilian. Is not a basic cause of contemporary environmental devastation “out here” a continuation of Western history’s determination to keep control “in here” over the most potent and enduring of the ancient gods, to ensure that the great god Pan stays dead?
Little wonder that environmentalists receive little sympathy. Beneath the scorn these tree huggers evoke and the violence they sometimes suffer is fear of Pan. Environmentalists serve not only the proud, isolated goddess Artemis in her duty to protect the wild world and its animals. Devotees of nature are also servants of Pan, therapists of his cult, as the world therapeia first means – worshiper, servant, devotee of a god or a cult.

The wild may not be confined to wilderness as imagined in the usual opposition between sublime nature and degenerate city. “Wild” can be freed from natural wilderness, and wilderness itself be de-literalized so that Pan can return to the city. Athens, the model of all cities, had its Pan cult. Lucian called Pan summachos, or ally of Athens, where he had his sanctuaries and rituals. According to Borgeaud, Pan balanced the militarism of Athene and Ares by his favoring music and dance, laughter, mystery rites, and an alliance with “the smiling one,” Aphrodite. Arcadia appears in the guise of the romantic city, misty, languid, nostalgic, evocative – Paris, Manhattan, Venice, Dresden – Pan’s syrinx becomes saxophone, Selene becomes moony longings, the city a haunt of nymphs and nympholepsy.

PAN’s hour was always noon. At this moment he would appear in the blaze and shimmer of midday, startling man and animal into blind terror. This seems to have little to do with the nightmare. Perhaps we need to regard high noon, the zenith of the day, as the highest point of natural strength, which constellates both the life force and its opposite, the necessary fall from this height. It is the uncanny moment when I and my shadow are one. Noon, like midnight, is a moment of transition and, like midnight, daybreak, and sunset, a radix of primordial orientation for what might be called the symbolic clock. These are the moments when time stands still, when the orderly procession of moments disrupts. So certain things must be accomplished before the cock’s crow at dawn, or at the stroke of midnight, or before night falls. At these moments time is broken through by something extraordinary, something beyond the usual order. The Mittagsfrauen appear, or ghosts at midnight – compare Nietzsche’s vision of the eternal at noon in his Thus Spake Zarathustra. This is the moment when the moment itself matters, where the moment is severed from before and after, a law to itself, a quality, altogether a constellation of the forces in the air, without continuity and so without connection to “… the waste sad time / Stretching before and after.”

This is the unrelatedness of Pan, and of the spontaneous aspect of nature. It simply is as it is, at where it is at; not the result of events, not with an eye to their outcome; headlong, heedless, brutal, and direct, whether in terror or desire. This is what is meant by the spontaneity of instinct – all life at the moment of propagation or all death in the panic of the herd. We may read into this behavior many explanations. We may find spontaneity “caused” by deeper laws of self-preservation and the survival of the species. We may see a larger ecological pattern to lie behind these sudden events, that they belong to a wider network of interwoven complexity. We may consider quantum jumps and the principle of discontinuity to be operative in humans and animals (and not only in inorganic physics). Or, we may conceptualize spontaneity in terms of inborn genetic codes being released within an inborn time cycle. Still the spontaneous frolic of kids, the gambol of lambs, as well as, the erection of the shepherd or his uncanny fright occur as instantaneous unconnected events. Spontaneity remains outside explanation. By definition it cannot be accounted for.

Spontaneity means self-generating, non-predictable, non-repeatable. It does not belong within the domains of natural science as science is defined, although it does seem to be a natural phenomenon. To find laws of the spontaneous would be a contradiction in terms, for these events are irregular, lawless. Thus to consider spontaneous events as random events that can be charted in Fisher’s tables blurs the categories between quantity and quality. Random is a quantitative concept; spontaneous is qualitative and significative, pointing to what Whitehead called “importance.”There is emotion with spontaneity. It means radically free. By considering Pan to be the background for spontaneity, we are suggesting an approach to spontaneous events by means of archetypal psychology.

The spontaneous panic out of noon’s stillness reappears in another configuration, the kobold, or little demon, also said by Roscher to cause panic and nightmare. This being too has a sexual connotation: it is phallic, dwarf-like, fertile, both lucky and fearful. Herbert Silberer (probably Freud’s most talented and adventurous pupil whose depth of psychological insight into alchemy, active imagination, and dreams did not save him from suicide) took up the kobold in relation to “accidental” events. His work is one of the first psychological investigations into the archetypal background of chance, or so-called uncaused phenomena.
Silberer attributed chance events to the spontaneous appearance of these kobold figures. They may be taken as a kind of Augenblicksgott, in the language of Hermann Usener. Or, they may be imagined like the daimon that suddenly cautioned Socrates, or any “personification” of a self-willed event that works like an entity crossing our path. Jung considered these events partly as psychic complexes, partly as spirit demons. Above all he gave them full recognition as authentic to nature.

Today we use concepts for these experiences, concepts like hunch, intuition, uncanny feeling, or even prophecy, in the sense we mentioned above. And parapsychology speaks of a sixth sense, which humankind shares with animals. These concepts do not take us very far. We are still left with the feeling assumption that there is a level of awareness, distributed wherever there is instinctual life and which echoes this life in sudden signals.

Myth has put this idea as the dismemberment of Echo. In Longus’s tale of Daphnis and Chloe, Echo was torn apart by Pan’s herdsmen (for refusing him). Her singing members were flung in all directions. Let us say that Pan speaks in these echoing bits of information which present nature’s own awareness of itself in moments of spontaneity. Why they occur at this moment and not that, why they are so often fragmentary, trivial, and even false – these questions would have to be explored through the mythology of the spontaneous rather than through either empirical or logical methods.

Jung considered synchronicity to be a principle equal to the other three and, like them, a part of nature. He found that sudden, irrational, peculiar, yet meaningful connections happen mainly when instinctual (emotional, archetypal, symbolic) levels of the psyche are engaged. Pan cannot be identified with all emotion, with all of the archetypes. But when a meaningful coincidence occurs that has a particularly sexual cast, or starts up a panic, or refers to his time (noon and nightmare), or his landscape, and attributes, or the mood of his nymphs, then we should look to him for insight. But even more than this, Pan may play a role in synchronicity in general, since Pan like synchronicity connects nature “in here” with it “out there.” Again Jung’s conceptual fantasy of synchronicity and the imaginary fantasy of Pan have a common reference.

THE god who brings madness can also take it from us. Like cures like. Yet, how little attention has been given to Pan in all the writings on mental illness. Pan was one of the few figures in Greek mythology to whom mental disease was directly attributed. [66] We read from Roscher that Soranus considered Pan responsible for both mania and epilepsy, which we might delimit with the language of today by saying that Pan (inflator) rules our hypomanic states, especially those with sexual compulsions and hypermotor activity, and he rules sudden seizures that convulse the whole person, whether panics, anxieties, nightmares, mantles (speaking with tongues). Using the psychoid, genetic metaphor, Pan would rule at the deepest level of our frenzy and our fear. At the same time Pan heals at this level, and there are connections between Pan and Asclepius through the attributes of music, phallus, nightmare vision and mantle insight. Both Pan and Asclepius heal by means of dreams. Through the nymphs special localities heal and bless. We have also seen Pan help the despairing Psyche; similarly, he frees the captured Chloe in Longus’s tale. Perhaps now we should read again Plato’s prayer to Pan quoted as a motto to this essay. The prayer is said by Socrates in a dialogue whose main concern (much disputed) is the right manner of speaking about eros and madness. The dialogue ends with Pan as it opens on the shady banks of a river near a place sacred to nymphs. Socrates reclines there, barefoot. There at the beginning Socrates mentions that he is still struggling with the maxim "know thyself" and with his sense of ignorance about his true nature.

Then at the end comes the prayer with its appeal for inner beauty, which would mean an end to ignorance, for in Platonic psychology insight into the true nature of things brings about true beauty. Pan, then, is that god able to bestow the special sort of awareness that Socrates needs. It is as if Pan is the answer to the Apollonic question about self-knowledge." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:56 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Pan is god of both nature “in here” and nature “out there.” As such Pan is the bridging configuration who keeps reflections from falling into disconnected halves where they become the dilemma of a nature without soul and a soul without nature, objective matter out there and subjective mental processes in here. Pan and the nymphs keep nature and psyche together. They say that instinctual events reflect in soul; they say that soul is instinctual.

All education, all religion, all therapy that does not recognize the identity of soul with instinct as presented by Pan, preferring either side to the other, insults Pan and will not heal. We can do nothing for the soul without recognizing it as nature “in here” and we can do nothing for instinct without remembering it has its own fantasy, reflection, and psychic intentions. The identity of the twin nuclei of Pan, whether as behavior and fantasy, compulsion and inhibition, sexuality and panic, or the god and his nymphs, means psyche and instinct are inseparable in every moment. What we do to our instinct, we also do to our souls.

It means that selfknowledge recognizes the presence of Pan in the obscurest caverns of the psyche and that he belongs to it. It means further that self-knowledge recognizes that Pan’s “horror” and his “moral depravities” also belong to the soul. This insight, by giving the goat its due, may bring the beauty for which Socrates prays. And by recognizing Pan so completely Pan may provide the blessing Socrates seeks, where inward and outward are one.

Socrates’s prayer to Pan is even more relevant today. We will not be able to find our way back to harmony with nature through the study of it alone. Though today's major concern is ecological, ecology as such is not enough. The importance of technology and scientific knowledge for protecting nature's processes goes without saying, but part of the ecological field is human nature, in whose psyche the archetypes dominate. If Pan is suppressed there, nature and instinct will go astray no matter how we strain on rational levels to set things right. In order to restore, conserve, and promote nature “out there,” nature “in here” must also be restored, conserved, and promoted to precisely the same degree. Otherwise our perceptions of nature out there, our actions upon it, and our reactions to it, will continue to show the same mangled exaggerations of inadequate instinct as in the past. Without Pan our good intentions to rectify past mistakes will only perpetrate them in other forms. The re-education of the citizen in relation to nature goes deeper than the nymph consciousness of awe and gentleness. Respect for life is not enough, and even love puts Pan down, so that the citizen cannot be re-educated through ways which are familiar. These all start with Pan dead. The reeducation would have to begin at least partly from Pan’s point of view, for after all it is his natural world that we are so worried about. But Pan’s world includes masturbation, rape, panic, convulsions, and nightmares. The re-education of the citizen in relation to nature means nothing less than a new relationship with these “horrors,” “moral depravities,” and “madnesses” that are part of the instinctual life of the citizen’s soul.

If Pan brings the madness, then he is its healer. Like cures like. He belongs in the education of the citizen. As master of instinctual soul, he has something to teach about rhythms and range. Pan was a music man and called a great dancer. He made his appearance felt in choral gatherings, in the beat of rhythmic clapping, bringing communal order to private panic. Music carries the body out of its separated loneliness. It educates (lit. “leads out”) the soul driven into itself by fear. It has been claimed that dance styles begin in the animal world; humans learned motions and gestures from animals, the ballet masters of ritualized spontaneity. Dance comes from out of the wild, and its intoxication leads us back into it.

If the society suffers the disease of wild rapaciousness, masturbatory exhibitionism, eruptive violence, and loss of an intimate sense of nature in the supposed “emptiness” of a “lost generation,” their wilderness and their wildness, then the god in the disease is Pan. He offers an education in music that compels that generation – music within the halls of education, not merely exploitive commercialism. Then Pan returns from noisy cacophony to syrinx and flute, lightstepping intricacy of the goat-footed god. Then we might see that it is not Pan who is mad and must be healed, but the society that has forgotten how to dance with him.

This leads us back to the nightmare and the revelation through it of the horrifying side of instinctual soul. Socrates’s puzzlings upon himself at the opening of the Phaedrus (230a) have a similar focus. He considers his likeness to Typhon, a demonic giant of volcanic eruptions, storms and underground earthquakes, “the personification of nature’s destructive power.” To “know thyself” in the Phaedrus begins with insight into nature’s demonic aspect.
The nightmare reveals this. There the healing re-education might begin because there instinctual soul is most real. Jones reminds us that "the vividness of Nightmares far transcends that of ordinary dreams." Roscher and Laistner observed this, and Jones quotes others who have stressed this reality:

"The degree of consciousness during a paroxysm of Nightmare is so much greater than ever happens in a dream … Indeed I know no way which a man has of convincing himself that the vision which has occurred during a paroxysm of Nightmare is not real. "

"The illusions which occur are perhaps the most extraordinary phenomena of nightmare; and so strongly are they often impressed upon the mind, that, even on waking, we find it impossible not to believe them real."

The vividness of the nightmare experience h as given rise to the belief in the objective reality of personified demons and gods or nightmare as experiential base of religion.

The horror and the healing effect of the nightmare takes place not because it is a revelation of sexuality as such, but of the fundamental nature of the human being who as sexual being is at one with animal being, with instinct, and thus at one with nature. Pan's vision of our humanity is that we, too, are pure nature in whom the volcanic eruptions, the destructive seizures and typhoons also reside. This reality cannot be borne home in abstract concepts. Nature’s metaphor is concrete and shaped. It must be felt, sensed, visioned in the actual, very real experience of hair and hooves. We must be paralyzed and suffocated by this reality as if there were something euphemistic in consciousness that always is in flight from “the horror.” This sense experience was once, and still is, the vision of Pan in his nightmare forms. Thus Roscher, Laistner, and Jones in different ways are right in finding significance in the nightmare. Its numinous power requires a commensurately overwhelming idea: through the nightmare the reality of the natural god is revealed." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 2:59 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Börner described the character of the nightmare as follows:

"The onset may be at any time during the night and usually commences with the feeling of troublesome breathing … It is generally thought that the attack starts when lying on one’s back, whereas in reality lying face downwards is the more frequent position. The increase of dyspnea secondarily rouses the imagination – the dream – which motivates a large variety of reasons for the dyspnea. The most common (but by no means exclusive) dream is that in which the person sees some hairy animal. This is often a dog who in an inconceivable manner has arrived in the room and slowly and deliberately creeps up upon the bed to sit on the person’s chest, usually on the area of the jugular vein. This is then taken to be the cause of the difficulty in breathing and the pressure (Alpdruck) that has become proverbial. Frequently there is a vision of some disgusting creature, an ugly human being, an old woman, or just a simple burden setting itself down on the chest … Anxiety increases with the degree of dyspnea, and sweating, palpitation, turgescence of the face and swelling of the nerves at the neck set in. The victim feels a need to alter his position so that he can shake off the oppressive agent and he is firmly convinced that this will bring relief. The muscles concerned, however, refuse to react to the most strenuous efforts of the will. This likewise contributes to the unrelieved anxiety … Finally the extreme anxiety and the accompanying interrupted sleep bring about a violent movement produced with great effort and preceded by plaintive moans, which usually results in an immediate and extremely pleasant feeling of relief and ease and is followed either by waking up or by continued sleep. When both sleep and dream are uninterrupted, it is frequently most difficult to convince oneself that the visions seen were not real."

According to other observers the feeling of deliverance is ushered in by a loud cry. Macnish in his book on dreams says:

"At the moment of throwing off the fit, we seem to turn round upon our sides with a mighty effort, as if from beneath the pressure of a superincumbent weight; and the more thoroughly to awake ourselves, we generally kick violently, beat our breasts, rise up in the bed, and cry out once or twice. As soon as we are able to exercise our volitions or voice with freedom, the paroxysm is at an end."

As regards the origin of nightmares in otherwise healthy people, Börner arrived at the conclusion from precise observation of himself “that since the trouble always disappeared suddenly after a vigorous movement, it follows that a hindrance to respiration must have been removed.” Further, observation of himself showed “that during a nightmare, the external orifices of respiration – the nose and mouth – were more or less completely covered. When I was lying on my back or on my side, this was caused by the bedclothes pressing quite firmly over my face, or more frequently by lying face downwards with my face pushed into the pillow.” Dealing with this point, Macnish says:

"I have frequently had attacks of this disorder while sitting in an armchair or with my head leaning against a table. In fact, these are the most likely positions to bring it on, the lungs being then more completely compressed than in almost any other posture. I have also had it most distinctly while lying on the side, and I know many cases of a similar description in others. "

Börner, on the other hand, asserts that, according to his observations, lying face downwards is the most frequent position for the nightmare. Börner’s studies on himself were completely confirmed by successful experiments on other people and were cleared of the suspicion of subjectivity and self-deception. By covering the mouth and nose of other people, Börner in many instances succeeded in producing exactly the same signs that he had observed on himself. In these cases the nightmare was a peculiar bastard animal – half dog and half monkey – that did not, as before, slowly slink up to the bed, but sprang in one leap upon the breast of the victim without being previously noticed (as the result of covering the patient’s face). This sudden leaping jump of the nightmare is characteristic of the majority of cases and hence the Greek word “Ephialtes” – “the one who jumps up” – is very apt. The animal then remained quiet as if sleeping on his victim while the unfortunate person, out of sheer anxiety, did not dare to move until finally the animal fell down as the result of some movement executed at the height of the torture.

"Occasionally – and more commonly in women – the feeling of anxiety is coupled with that of lust, and women often believe that the phantom has had sexual intercourse with them. Men have analogous sensations and generally emissions of semen resulting from the pressure exerted on the genitalia by lying on the abdomen."

Börner states that the main symptoms of the nightmare are the feeling of pressure generally brought about by lying face downward, inability to move, and anxiety. Macnish calls particular attention to the extraordinary and inexplicable anxiety of the patient as a symptom that is practically never absent. An essential prerequisite for the origin of a nightmare is deep sleep.

It is almost generally admitted that the difficulty in breathing, which produces a nightmare in healthy people and is caused by an external impediment like bedclothes, can also originate from certain illnesses and likewise give rise to very severe nightmares. Examples of these illnesses are croup, tuberculosis, organic heart disease, asthmatic complaints, advanced stages of hypochondria and hysteria, mental illnesses, and fever deliria. Börner adds: “Thus I believe that there will be a kind of nightmare preceding suffocation by gases, just like the sudden nocturnal shutting off of the respiratory tracts by foreign bodies, croupous membranes, etc.” According to Binz, one can see in the deliria of typhoid fever the same symptoms as in poisoning by the thorn-apple, i.e., confused sensual dreams, intoxication, and narcotization. Occasionally a nightmare can result from a faulty diet, as for example from the intake of indigestible food.

Binz indeed asserts on the basis of his experiences that when he is suffering from a head-cold, a rather heavy evening meal is sufficient to produce a nightmare. He says:

"The state of dreaming we know under the term of nightmare can be produced by acute poisoning … The validity of Börner’s researches can be established by paying some attention to oneself. If, when one is suffering from a cold that obstructs both nasal openings, one eats a rather heavy evening meal and then goes to sleep while the nose is reasonably free from obstruction and the mouth closed as usual, it will frequently happen that catarrhal secretion and swelling of the nasal mucous membrane occurs during the deepest sleep. The passage of the air becomes more and more obstructed and the carbon dioxide and other suffocating products of metabolism accumulate in the blood and insult the nervous system. A profound uneasiness pervades our mind in completely blurred forms; sometimes this takes the form of a definite process of suffocation, at other times the uneasiness remains obscure and confused in accordance with the duration and strength of its origin. Eventually a sudden movement of the body is imparted to the closed lips, or more often – as I have observed repeatedly on myself – there is a loud cry of fear and need of assistance which opens the mouth to allow the rescuing atmospheric air a free pathway. Oxygen is the antidote. The oxygen equalizes the perverted irritation caused by excretions retained in the cells of our brain; it does this by binding with and chemically altering the cxcretions."

As we shall see later, this theory was already formulated by the physicians of ancient times. A special feature to which attention has been called by most observers is the unusually vivid nature of nightmare visions that frequently far surpass the impressions left by what is experienced while awake. Laistner says in this connection:

"The intensity of the apparitions in nightmares is far greater than in the ordinary dream images, so much so that the subject when awake is fully convinced that he has not simply had a dream. The impression exceeds the most vivid intuition of the person’s waking imagination, however extraordinarily “mythic” that may be, and so there can be no doubt that the living belief in nightmare monsters can be explained most simply by the vividness of the dream presentations."

Thus Macnish recounts an actual observation by the physician Waller, who had a nightmare apparition, which he mistook for reality for a long time until he finally realized that it was only a dream. Macnish also states:

"Sometimes we are in a state closely approximating perfect sleep; at other times we are almost completely awake; and it will be observed that the more awake we are, the greater is the violence of the paroxysm. I have frequently experienced the affection stealing upon me while in perfect possession of my faculties and have undergone the greatest torture."

This view of Macnish seems to some extent to be endorsed by Cubasch, who says in Der Alp (The Nightmare):

"Dream pictures often seem to continue after awakening; this is a peculiarity that is not only associated with nightmares, but is often observed in vivid dreams of all kinds. This continuation of the visions must be attributed to sleep-drunkenness, which is the state between being fully awake and deeply asleep or the reverse. It demonstrates only that a person has not yet ceased to dream and that sleep has not yet been completely shaken off. The conditions most favorable for this state are provided when a person is suddenly aroused from deep sleep either by alarming dreams or by other circumstances."

The so-called pavores nocturni (night terrors) of children between the ages of three and seven years seem to belong in this context. Of these Soltmann says:

"They usually occur during the deepest sleep and several hours after falling asleep, without any prior warning. The children commonly sit up suddenly in bed about midnight with a flushed face and bathed in sweat. Their fixed gaze, the confused talk, the absence of response to calls and questions, all indicate that consciousness is dulled. The carotid blood vessels pulsate, the heart beats strongly, and the hands tremble with terror. Persuasion is of no avail and the senses remain spellbound under the heavy pressure of terror and fright brought about by the vision. Sometimes the children will utter monosyllabic garbled sounds and words – like “there, there,” “dog,” “man,” etc. – which obviously relate to the alarming visions. It often requires fifteen to twenty minutes to calm down the child."

Soltmann further points out that the majority of these children suffer from indigestion, dyspepsia, constipation, gastritis, anaemia, scrofula, and rickets. Occasionally these night terrors occur in typhoid fever, scarlet fever, and in psychic excitement produced by fright and fear. A twelve-year-old boy afflicted with advanced spondylitis dorsalis imagined during his attacks that an animal had jumped on his back and wanted to crush him to death. It can be seen from this how closely related children’s night terrors are to the nightmare.

Compare Tylor:

"… dream pictures play with the half-awake consciousness, and the mind is made to believe things that do not exist inreality. Thus the forms or shapes of that fanciful world of fairy stories in which a person saw himself transfigured remain as an echo before his clouded consciousness, and the person thinks he is observing these things fully awake, whereas in fact he is not yet quite fully conscious. Sleep-drunkenness is a fruitful soil for all kinds of deceptions of the senses … A person in the state of sleep-drunkenness who is fully convinced that he is master of himself is seeing just the phantoms that assailed him while he was asleep; and he sees them now with his eyes open and with apparently normal consciousness."

After waking, such phenomena remain for some time and are directly on the borderline between a dream and a hallucination – that is to say, between normal consciousness and disturbed consciousness. They differ merely quantitatively from the hallucinations of insanity by their shorter duration; if they continue to persist undiminished over a period of days, weeks or months, they must be looked upon as an undoubted sign of insanity. At this point it is well to heed the fact that “frequently dreams are blamed by mental patients as the starting points of certain fixed ideas, in so far as what is dreamt is thought to have been a genuine experience.”

As regards the dangers of nightmares when these occur frequently and are very intense, Börner thinks that a severe degree of dyspnea with its attendant retarding of the blood circulation could easily give rise to cerebral hemorrhage and possibly even acute edema of the brain. According to Radestock, nightmares sometimes precede mental illness and occur in organic cardiac diseases, asthmatic syndromes, and repeatedly in the more advanced stages of hypochondria and hysteria. Macnish is of the opinion that they can produce apoplexy or may be the cause of epileptic and hysteric attacks in people who are unusually sensitive.

Collective apparitions are sometimes met with in the nightmare, just as in what has been called the panicky terrors and mental disorders. This means that a large number of people are attacked at the same time by the nightmare – just as in an epidemic – and that these people all have the same visions. On the basis of such “collective apparitions,” A. Krauss assumes that a specific Alpmiasma (nightmare miasma) gives rise to these apparitions. An interesting example of the condition is seen in the following report by Radestock:

"A complete battalion of French soldiers quartered in an old abbey near Tropea in Calabria was attacked by a nightmare during the middle hours of the night. The whole battalion to a man arose from their beds and, chased by panicky terror, ran out into the open. (Note here the close link between the nightmare and the panicky terror of man and animals.) When questioned what had so frightened them, they replied one and all that the devil in the shape of a large black shaggy dog had entered through the door, rushed on their chests with the speed of lightning and then disappeared through a door opposite the entrance. The same scene was repeated on the following night. Notwithstanding the fact that the officers had distributed themselves on all sides to stand watch against the devil, no power on earth could make the soldiers return to their quarters. This extraordinary manifestation is explained very simply. These soldiers had, on a hot June day, done a forced march of 25 miles and were then crowded into the abbey, which was too small for so large a number. They had lain down to sleep on a little straw and had not taken off their clothes because they had nothing with which to cover themselves. The exhaustion, the primitive sleeping conditions, and the constricting uniforms all caused physiological excitation, which soon produced an apparition already known to the troops, since the locals had told them that they would experience something uncanny in the abbey where the devil prowled in the guise of a black shaggy dog. "

The erotic dreams described by Börner as occasionally associated with nightmares can be divided into two types according to the sex of the erotic demon who appears. This depends generally – but not necessarily – upon the sex of the sleeper. Hence even today Germanic superstition differentiates between the female (mare) and the male (mar) love phantom. The former is by far the more frequent. According to a medieval and current popular belief, devils and witches – i.e., daemonic living beings – appear in both forms to seduce or torment the sleeper in his or her dream. (The incubus and succuba of the Middle Ages come to mind.) Indeed, there exist numerous partly highly romantic fairytales and legends in which the sleepers fall in love with the love-phantom and even have offspring by it. Obviously some of these are often the result of organic sexual complaints, as Krauss in particular demonstrates in his “Der Sinn im Wahnsinn.”

Having objectively established the current theories on the nature and origin of the nightmare, we are now in a firm position to criticize the attitude of the ancient physicians. The first Greek physician who we know for certain to have dealt with the nightmare in his scientific research was Themison of Laodicea. He was the founder of the so-called Methodical School and a contemporary of Caesar and Cicero. Unfortunately, all we know is that in his letters he called the nightmare not ephialtes (“leaper”), as did other doctors, but employed a rarer but, at the same time, rather characteristic term: pnigalion (“throttler”). We obtain much more exact information from the theories of the leading member of the school, Soranus, who, next to Hippocrates and Galen, was perhaps the most productive and significant of the ancient physicians. In the era before Soranus, incidentally, Rufus of Ephesus had also considered the nightmare. "When someone is plagued by the incubus, prescribe emetics and laxatives, put the patient on a light diet, purge the head by sneezing and gargling, and later rub in beaver oil and the like to prevent epilepsy.”

Concerning the views of the ancients on the nature of the nightmare, the very expression pnigalion, which Themison probably borrowed from the vernacular, shows that he considered “choking, becoming strangled” as the most essential characteristic of the nightmare, the symptom to which Soranus, Oreibasius, Aetius, Paulus Aegineta, and others have also drawn special attention. Further symptoms mentioned are the feelings of the sleeper that somebody is sitting on his chest or suddenly jumps upon it or that somebody climbs up and crushes him heavily with his weight. The sufferer feels incapacity to move, torpidity, and inability to speak. Attempts to speak often result only in single, inarticulate sounds. According to Soranus and Paulus Aegineta, the impression may arise that the demon sitting on the sleeper’s chest is trying to violate him but vanishes as soon as the sleeper seizes his fingers or joins his own hands or clenches his fists: “Some are so affected by empty visions that they believe they are being attacked and forced to the vilest acts: if they grasp the oppressor they believe it will vanish.” The passage is absolutely clear and obviously means that according to popular belief the person tortured by the nightmare must grasp the monster with his fingers if he is to chase it away.

This belief is also current in Germany and among the Slavs. Laistner says: “He whom the Murawa oppresses must touch her small toe, and then she leaves him.” “One must hold firmly the finger of Psezpolnica (a Slavonic female spirit) and then she flees.” “One must seize the Murawa or nightmare witch or hold her fast by the hair.” The expression “with closed fingers,” quoted from Paulus Aegineta, is not so easy to explain because it is not clear whether he refers to the fingers of the nightmare demon or to those of the victim. If the former, it is virtually identical with the words of Soranus; if the latter, we are reminded of the ancient superstition that folding the hands or clenching the fists was an effective antidote for magic. According to Wuttke, the nightmare can be dispelled by placing the thumb under the fingers. Veckenstedt and Laistner say that whoever succeeds in pressing his big toe three times against the bedstead will frighten the Murawa away. All these suppositions arise from the observed fact that the nightmare disappears as soon as the sleeper recovers the lost capacity for movement by a slight motion of the fingers or toes. The Greek physicians also observed regular epidemics of nightmares. Caelius Aurelianus writes: “Silimachus (an error for Callimachus) a pupil of Hippocrates, relates that many were carried away by this contagion just like the plague in the city of Rome.” This obviously refers to the Hippocratic Callimachus, who was a pupil of Herophilus in the third or second century BCE.

The ancient writers, and in particular Soranus, emphasize that the nightmare can be considered a dangerous ailment only when it affects the same person time and again. Under these circumstances there may be chlorosis, emaciation, insomnia, constipation, and, if the attacks are especially violent and frequent, sometimes even epilepsy and death. Soranus believes that in its essence every nightmare is identical with an epileptic attack. (Even before the time of Soranus, the physician Rufus of Ephesus, explained the nightmare as a sign of incipient epilepsy.) The victims of a nightmare suffer while asleep exactly the same as does the epileptic while awake. Hence the evil must be dealt with energetically at its root so that the condition does not become chronic and permit the onset of epilepsy, mental disturbance, mania, or apoplexy. (Soranus describes epileptics as those who have heavy and appalling dreams and easily become insane.) As faithful pupils and followers of their great master Hippocrates, the ancient physicians strongly opposed the prevalent popular belief that the nightmare was a god or wicked spirit. Soranus in particular refutes this superstition in detail in his Aetiology. there is here neither a god nor a semi-god nor Cupid” (in error for concupiscence). I presume that Soranus is thinking here of erotic nightmares and of the teaching of Herophilus, according to which our concupiscence or our erotic instinct can produce dreams of this kind. Soranus considers even erotic nightmares as incipient epilepsy, especially since epileptic attacks are often associated with gonorrhoea without the erotic instinct (cupido) being present. As soon as the attack has passed and the victim is awake one can observe that the face and body orifices are covered with moist sweat, and the patient feels a heaviness in the nape of the neck and has a mild irritating cough. This cough is presumably only a natural sequel to the precedent dyspnea.

As regards the aetiology or cause of the nightmare, the ancients had already noted that it frequently originates from digestive upsets following overeating, alcoholic excesses, and eating indigestible food. Naturally the ancients knew nothing about its causation through mechanical obstruction of the respiratory inlets as first noted by Börner. Another feature correctly observed in ancient times was that the state of sleep-drunkenness or the transition period between fully asleep and fully awake is very favorable to the production of a nightmare; and that the visions of the dream may then persist so vividly for a period before falling asleep or after waking up that the sleeper will deceive himself into believing that he sees the vision with open eyes and in actual reality. Thus, for example, Macrobius, probably following one of the old physicians, writes:

"Fantasma is indeed a vision, between waking and deep sleep, in those first mists of sleep when one still believes oneself to be awake and has just fallen asleep, which seems to be forcing its way in as wandering forms of varying size, shape, or temper, either joyful or disturbing. Ephialtes is of this type, which popular belief holds to come in on the sleepers and weigh on them heavily and oppress them severely."

More modern medical opinion confirms that deception of the senses often occurs in the state directly preceding sleep.
The fact that certain illnesses – especially those associated with hectic fever – produce a variety of terrifying nightmarish visions of vivid intensity was quite familiar to the ancient physicians. Let us compare, for example, Hippocrates: “The evil in these fevers and cramps (contortions) from dreams,” to which Galen adds: “We also notice in dreadful illnesses oppressions, fears, and cramps stemming from dreams.” Again Hippocrates: “Once he has gone to sleep he jumps up from his sleep when he sees the monstrous visions” (previously the talk was of fever). Later he continues: “Critias reports on feverish dreams.” Galen: “I have called those who suffer from physical illnesses clear-sighted and those who are frightened by dreams prophets and seers through phantasmata.”
From these fears, which according to Hippocrates also attack small children in their sleep (as noted above, the pavores nocturni), the god of dreams, Phobetor, obviously derives his name in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and to him are ascribed in particular the production of all kinds of terrifying animal apparitions. The frightful and monstrous things, the confusion of the senses, the startled flight from the bed presumably also belong in this context, i.e., those night deliria and nightmares considered signs of epilepsy in the broader sense and which Hippocrates talks about in The Sacred Disease. We learn from Hippocrates that people believed them to be the influence of evil spirits of the dead against which one employed sacrifices of purification and expiation and incantations. Even the layman had such frequent opportunity of witnessing nightmarish deliria and hallucinations during fever that it does not seem strange if sometimes the two conceptions of fever and nightmare are interchanged and the usual Ephialtes as the demon of the nightmare is repeatedly called Ipialos, Ipialis. Aristotle, in “On Dreams,” acknowledged the close kinship between deliria and dreams when he wrote: “We meet the same symptoms in people startled from their dreams, as indeed dreams cause illnesses.” Aristophanes is obviously thinking of severe fevers allied with dangerous dyspnea and nightmares and of their demons when he boasts that he fought as a second Hercules: “For you he fought, and for you he fights: / And then last year with adventurous hand / He grappled besides with the Spectral Shapes, / The Agues and Fevers that plagued our land.”" [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 3:00 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"The remedies and dietetic discipline employed by the ancient doctors for nightmares were closely aligned with their views on their origin. The majority and most important of these remedies aimed at removing the damaging morbid humors and changing them into beneficial ones – corresponding to the basic theory of the humors in ancient medicine. The main therapy used was primarily venesection and various kinds of purgatives. For effective dietetic treatment Soranus-Caelius advises several days of fasting and then an easily digestible simple diet, strictly avoiding all foodstuffs producing flatulence, above all beans. Beans were strictly forbidden to the Pythagoreans because they were considered to be very indigestible and causative of evil dreams and nightmares by their flatulent action. Plinius even reports a remarkable superstition according to which the “souls of the dead,” i.e., evil spirits, were believed to dwell in beans.

Hence the belief that they dwell in certain injurious foods and that the intake of these foods would bring the spirits temporarily into the human body. The most important of these demons living in plants was Dionysus, the god of wine, ivy, and perhaps also of hemp, endowed with narcotic strength. He was directly identified with ivy and vine and, having transferred himself to men by their enjoyment of the produce of these plants, he animated and inspired, indeed possessed them. We also meet the same – and probably a most ancient – popular superstition in Porphyrius. He observes on the demons causing nightmares that they enter into the human body with the food and there do all kinds of mischief and, in particular, bring on flatulence: “As we eat, they enter into us and settle in us and thus they pollute, not by divine interference. They generally delight in blood and filthiness and invade the possessed. In a word, a compulsion of greed and desire, and general excitation cloud rational thinking and unintelligible sounds connected with them and also flatulence cause man’s breakdown which satisfies the demon.” It seems to be evident from the fragment found in Proclus that Porphyrius was probably thinking of the demons of vicious dreams and nightmares that live in certain unwholesome foods when speaking of the flatulence aroused by malevolent demons. Zeller has related this to the ancient beliefs about incubi. The unintelligible sounds most probably refer not only to belches and flatulence but also to the inarticulate shrieks of the victim tormented by the nightmare.

Philostratus tells an exactly parallel story in the Life of Apollonius of Tyana (6.27), of an erotic nightmare spirit appearing in the form of a satyr. While Apollonius and his companions were staying in an Ethiopian village not far from the Nile cataracts and were eating their evening meal, they suddenly heard shouting by women who called out to one another, “Seize him and persecute him!” They also asked their husbands to punish the “adulterer.” This village had been haunted for ten months by the ghost of a satyr who had evil designs on the women and was even said to have murdered two with whom he was particularly in love. The story continues to tell how Apollonius tamed and rendered harmless the demonic satyr by intoxicating him with wine – just as Midas did to the silenus (or satyr) – and banished him into a nymph grotto nearby.

Considering the frequent mixing of the concepts of Pan and Satyr (Faunus) in the Hellenistic age, one could in this case again think of Pan as the chief representative of the nightmare in the last centuries of the classical period. Often victims appear to their murderers in dreams at night or in hallucinations when half awake but still drunk with sleep. They take the form of ghostly evil demons, terrify their victims and foretell their imminent destruction. An example is the ghost of the murdered Julius Caesar who appeared to Brutus and Cassius. Plutarch calls the ghost appearing to Brutus “your evil daemon.” According to Valerius Maximus the same is true for the “man of enormous size, black in color, with filthy beard and unkempt hair” who terrified Gaius Cassius Parmensis shortly before his death “in the first sleep, when he lay on his couch asleep with anxiety and troubles.” [54] In both cases the evil daemon can only be Caesar himself or his personal genius. What is described is most probably a nightmare, and yet some of the most characteristic signs are missing: jumping up, rushing in, burdening, weighing down; likewise in the dreadful dream of Aulus Caecina in Tacitus. It is possible that the concept lying at the basis of this dream is similar to that found in many Nordic sagas, i.e., that the soul of the living possess the power of leaving the body during sleep and of appearing to others in their dreams, thereby imparting a kind of reality. (I am referring to the Norse fylgja.) The modern Greek kallikantzaroi, who are in many ways related to the Pans and Satyrs, act in a similar fashion.

Here the tradition about Alexander the Great comes to mind, whose mother Olympias is said to have conceived him during a dream in which Zeus appeared in the form of lightning. Then there are the supernatural births of Plato, Seleucus, and Augustus and the Thasian legend about the birth of Theagenes; finally the fables concerning Zeus and Alcmene, Zeus and Danae, Zeus and Semele, Mars and Ilia, etc. Even today the impulse to fable similar legends has not fully died. Crusius points out correctly that in Hellenistic literature, the sirens were believed to be the daughters of Achelous and a muse, rather akin to the Naiads, and according to Dinon in Pliny, these sirens “charm people with their song, and when they are sunk in heavy sleep, tear them to pieces.” The Naiads were also reputed to be daughters of the river gods and especially of Achelous.

We find similar beliefs about the North German elves. These are also distinguished by their beauty and like to bask in the sunshine. Corresponding to the elves dancing on moonlit meadows are the sirens as playmates of Persephone as she picks flowers in the fields. A blow from an elf causes lameness or brings on illness. The elves shoot their arrows down through the air, and similarly the elf’s “shot” carries death. The same holds true for nymphs. In Icelandic folklore the elves have love affairs with human beings. Closely connected with the elves are the vampire-like Empusae and Lamiae of whom it is said in Philostratus:
“These beings fall in love, and they are devoted to the delights of Aphrodite but especially to the flesh of human beings. And they decoy with such delights those whom they mean to devour in their feasts.” Let us take this opportunity to recall the insomnia Veneris or somni Venerei (bad dreams of Venus) that are so closely allied pathologically with nightmares. These are erotic dreams associated with gonorrhea, and the doctors in ancient times believed them to be the precursors or symptoms of epilepsy and insanity – just as with nightmares. The people also attributed them to the powers of daemons.

Vivid nightmares often appear to the sleeper as objective external experiences, and he does not heed the fact that all the motives contained in the legend – for example, the paralysis of the hip – recur in nightmares, as will be pointed out in the following. The fact that the struggle in question is not specifically designated as a dream experience must not be considered an obstacle, for dreams, and especially nightmares, which have been conspicuous by their peculiar vividness, have frequently not been recognized as dreams, but have been described as factual experiences. As we have already seen, even modern physicians accustomed to accurate observation of themselves, have sometimes mistaken subjective dream phenomena of great intensity for real experiences. Let us compare, for example, in the Odyssey, where Ulysses, hidden in the form of an eagle, appears to Penelope in a dream and calls out to her: “This is not a dream but a happy reality that you shall see fulfilled.” One thinks also of the remarkable story of the cure of Sostrata of Pherae, where it is reported how this patient had set out on her return journey without having received a clear vision in a dream and on the way was cured by Asclepius when she was fully awake and not through the agency of a dream. A charming ode of Horace is based on a similar dream vision. The best analogy of all, however, is furnished by the nightmare of Hyginus, which is expressly stated to be a real experience. The words to be specially noticed in Artemidorus are: “The dream, which brings victory to one of the two wrestlers, who keeps his strength until the break of dawn.” According to Artemidorus, “a struggle with an unknown opponent means danger through illness". Similarly, Veckenstedt in his Lithuanian Myths says of the Lithuanian Medine or forest woman: “It can happen to whoever goes through the wood that the Medine forces him to struggle with her; should he be victorious he is richly rewarded, but if he is defeated, she devours him.” Kolrusch and Perty say that the nightmare is sometimes so intense that the sleeper contending with the specter tumbles out of his bed; obviously the fall may cause sprains, laming, and all kinds of injuries.

In the first place the rheumatic pains contracted by slumbering incautiously in the open air and known as witch or demon “shots” spring to mind. This designation clearly shows that such pains and pareses were ascribed by the people to the beings who became visible in nightmares. The “blow” of the Greek Nereids is a similar belief. This was directed particularly against people who went to sleep about midday in a lonely spot in the open air near springs and streams and manifested itself by mental or physical illness.

In this context Laistner writes: “If you can more or less conjecture who it is you feel to be lying upon you (as a nightmare demon) you must call him by his name, and the Murawa will escape.” This motif plays a big part in numerous fairytales and saga collected by Laistner. The best known is that of Rumpelstilzkin.

Finally the Brandenburg nightmare demon Scherber (Serp, Serpel) falls into this category. This is the male counterpart of Serpolnica and hacks the plagued victim in the heel with a curved knife (sickle?), just as in the Austrian alplands it is considered highly dangerous to tread barefoot into the footprints of the Hafergeiss when this demon goat appears as a nightmare devil, because one immediately feels the Gallschuss (a shot of bile), which produces a piercing pain in the foot as caused by rheumatism or gout." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 3:01 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"Among the Sandomier forest dwellers the nightmare demon is called the Vjek (”old man’’) or Gnotek (”small oppressor”). Nobody knows where he spends his days. He is not big but exceedingly heavy. The Vjek lies down on an unsuspecting sleeper and compresses his chest with all his strength so that the victim cannot move. People say that if anyone can snatch away the Vjek’s cap, the Vjek will bring him plenty of money.

The blessing that the nightmare demon confers may also consist in the communication of important and useful secrets or in the granting of strength and good health. As we shall see later, this feature of blessing, of doing good and being of service, is imprinted and developed to an exceptional degree in the Germanic domestic spirits (spiritus familiares) who are at the same time nightmare demons. Thus the connection between the hitherto unexplained name of Mephistopheles and Ophelis/Epophelis (“helper, benefactor”) becomes clear since he was one of these useful domestic spirits according to the old Faust legend.

The view mentioned above of a health-promoting and blessing-bestowing field of activity of the nightmare demon is expressed in an epigram in Kaibel, which has been variously misunderstood. This inscription was found in Rome, and Kaibel dates it about the second century CE. In it, a shepherd claims to have been cured of a serious illness by the appearance of Pan-Ephialtes while he was taking his midday rest. The epigram runs:

"To you, o flute player, hymnist, benevolent god
Pure leader of the Naiads pouring bath waters,
Hyginus, whom you yourself healed of severe illness
by coming near him, presents this oblation.
For you have appeared to all my sheep,
not as a dream vision but in the middle of the day."

Compare this to Artimidorus where the same antithesis of dream and day is found, and of course the Odyssey where Ulysses calls to Penelope in a dream, “Take heart, daughter of the noble Icarius. This is not a dream but a happy reality you shall see fulfilled.”

Almost all scholars who have reviewed this interesting inscription hold the opinion that the godhead who is presented with the oblation is Apollo-Paean although nowhere else is he called soriktis (“flute player”). Plew and Drexler are the only writers who have connected the epigram correctly with Pan, who is elsewhere, as here, called hymnist, leader of the Naiads, and flute player, as Drexler correctly noted. Furthermore, the fact that Pan reveals himself in dreams to people during their midday sleep – just as here – justifies this interpretation. In Longus, all kinds of terrifying day and night visions are interpreted as “revelations of Pan’s anger with the sailors.” We advance further in the understanding of our epigram by the insight that the instance of Hygeinus does not – as Plew and Robert assume – deal with an ordinary dream but is rather one of those vivid nightmares that, as we have just seen, were attributed to Pan-Ephialtes and according to ancient popular belief were said to have curative effects on illness. Pan – like Asclepius – healed the sick through dreams:

"On going down from here you come to a sanctuary of Pan Lyterius … so named because he showed to the Troezenian magistrates dreams that supplied a cure for the epidemic that had afflicted Troezenia and the Athenians more than any other people."

A shepherd, Hygeinus, is afflicted with a severe physical complaint and about midday lies down to rest among his flock. While he believes that he is still awake, Pan-Ephialtes (the god of both shepherds and hunters) appears to him in an exceedingly vivid dream and by this apparition cures him. The same is true of the incubation dreams in which the god, demon, or hero who lives physically in the temple appears to the dreamer and cures him either by personal intervention or by telling him the therapy. The vividness of the dream sometimes reaches the pitch where the sleeper believes that he has seen the awearance of the god when awake and not when asleep. This is evident in the remarkable story of the cure of Sostrata in the second catalogue of Epidaurus.

In accepting a physical and not simply dreamed apparition of the god, Hygeinus is strengthened by the fact that at the same time his animals fell victims to a panicky terror (likewise attributed to the god), and out of gratitude he offers an oblation to the rescuing god for having been cured. Perhaps Pan’s appelative Paean relates to him in his capacity as helper and saviour, as the rescuer from illness. The representation of Ephialtes as a rescuing and redeeming healing god is easily explained by the feeling of rescue and redemption following most nightmares. Nightmare and panicky terror are closely related concepts and are therefore frequently assigned to the same demons.

How widespread was the concept that Pan when angry sends terrifying dreams and visions clearly appears from several glossaries of Hesychius and Photius, which have not been rightly understood until now. Photius (Lexicon, ed. Naber, 51): “Because Pan is the instigator of visions causing insanity;” Hesychus: “The emanations of Pan cause nightly visions.” The anger of Pan is also frequently mentioned elsewhere, e.g., in the Medea by Euripides (1172), in relation to the onset of epilepsy. It can easily be recognized that the connection of Pan with dreams and visions – especially nightmares – is most intimately associated with panic, terror, the excitation of which was likewise ascribed to Pan.

I may be permitted here once again to state what I have already observed for the understanding of this remarkable phenomenon, which is easily comprehensible from the nature of Pan as the god of shepherds and herds: it is an acknowledged fact that even completely tame animals, such as sheep and goats, are affected by the most violent disquiet and terror, which frequently come on very suddenly – primarily during the night – and generally without any objectively perceptible reason. The animals become completely senseless, and as if insane, rush to one spot, even if this is highly dangerous for them. For example, they may charge into a precipice or into deep water and thus some animals or even the whole herd can perish. In Valerius Flaccus (Argonautica, 3.43ff.), the panicky terror that was fatal for the Doliones is traced to nocturnal trumpet calls and shouts of terror. The description runs: “Men’s rest was broken; the god Pan had driven the doubting city distraught. Pan, lord of the woodlands and of war, whom caverns shelter from the daylight hours. About midnight in lonely places are seen that hairy flank and the roughing leafage in his fierce brow.” The description ends with the words, “Sport it is to the god when he ravishes the trembling flock from their pens, and the steers trample the thickets in their flight.” The Suda says: “The terrors of Pan – something that occurs in military encampments; horses and men are suddenly thrown into agitation for no apparent reason; so called because these groundless terrors are attributed to Pan.” Julius Fröbel writes on this panic of horses, dogs, etc.: “One of the most dangerous incidents that could happen on a journey is a night stampede, or to express myself in the classical manner, the effect of a panicky terror on a team of mules … The least misfortune to be feared is that one of the mule drivers will be trampled under foot by the team suddenly running away as if it were enraged. All the mules may be lost and the entire caravan perish” (Beilage zur Allgemeinen Zeitung [1890], no. 190). Modern zoologists have observed that goats and sheep in particular are subject to this terror…

Just as frequently, visual phenomena bring on panicky terror in accordance with the ancient views. Compare Dionysius (Roman Antiquities, 5.16): “For the Romans attribute panics to this divinity; and whatever apparitions come to men’s sight, now in one shape and now in another, inspiring terror, or whatever supernatural voices come to their ears to disturb them, are the work, they say, of this god.” These supernatural voices are the “ghost sounds of nature” about which E. Thiessen has recently published a stimulating article. This is the so-called panicky terror of which the essential characteristic – as affirmed by the ancients – is the sudden unpredictable onset and the dangerous recklessness, heedless of all sense of reason, which attacks a number of individuals at the same time. Hence this is frequently called madness (mania, pavor lymphaticus). The Greek shepherds, naturally trying to explain the undoubtedly demonic character of this phenomenon (which, as has been said, frequently affected shepherd life) and to make it to some extent comprehensible, ascribed it to the destructive demonic action of Pan as the god of herds and shepherds. They were on their guard against arousing the anger of the god so that he might spare their herds from madness.

Thus Pan also becomes a god of war because he often sends panicky terror to large groups of people, particularly armies. This played a decisive part in ancient military history, as for example at Marathon and Delphi. The fact that the idea of panicky terror owes its origin primarily to the experiences and observations of shepherd life can also be seen in Aeneas Tacticus (Poliorcetica, 27), who states explicitly that paneia (“panic”) has to be considered a Peloponnesian or Arcadian name, because Arcadia and the Peloponnese were held to be the true seat and original home of the cult of Pan from time immemorial." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 3:02 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"For a deeper understanding of the close association between the two concepts of nightmare and panicky terror, I draw attention to 1) the epidemic nightmares already mentioned, which in their effects are fully on a par with panicky terror, and 2) the fact that elsewhere the demons inciting panicky terror are also identical with those of the nightmare. Thus, for example, a description of a stampede (i.e., the effect of panicky terror on the herds in the southwest of North America) says: “The herdsmen call this ‘the nightmare’ and attribute it to invisible powers, hobgoblins, or dwarfs who stupefy the cattle in this manner, frighten them, and drive them apart.” It was evidently taken for granted that animals as well as men were tormented in certain morbid states by terrifying dreams (nightmares) and hallucinations, which produced panicky terror. The most unequivocal evidence is found in the Suda: “Excitation through dreams: agitated by dreams, animals also fall ill, says Pythagoras;” and in Lucretius who says about the dreams of animals: “In truth you will see strong horses, when their limbs lie at rest, yet sweat in their sleep and go on panting and strain every nerve as though for victory.”

The pathological condition mentioned here is undoubtedly identical with the one known to German superstition and outright ascribed to nightmare demons. Let us compare, for example, Wuttke:

Even horses and other animals are tormented by nightmares; the animals sweat profusely and snort loudly and become completely disarranged and have knotted manes, which cannot be combed out and can only be burned out with blessed candles or excised by a cut in the shape of a cross. The Walriderske (Westphalian and Oldenburg name for nightmare demons) ride on them to their business.

I presume that this very widespread illness of horses was actually called “nightmares,” but for the present I cannot produce any definite proof for this designation. Snorting (dyspnea), sweating, and great unrest at night are also characteristic for nightmares afflicting humans, according to Soranus. It was indeed generally believed that horses and sheep suffered from almost the same illnesses as man. On this point see Aristotle: “Experience shows that almost all diseases affecting men also afflict horses and cattle.” The peculiar belief of the Huzuls that Kaindl tells us about certainly also belongs here:

At Christmas time these small devils (szczezlyki, chowanci) visit the stables and allow the cattle no peace. They ride and jump around on them so that the cattle die from exhaustion even during the night or become very emaciated; moreover, these devils break all the stable equipment to pieces. In order to prevent this, the stables must be fumigated with incense (ladan) in the evening and the locks of the doors bound with garlic, which keeps away all evil.

Very reminiscent of this is the story of the Leetons – the nightmare demons of the Latvians – where the horses are said to be ridden by the Maar or Leeton, as they are called, at night so that the horses become very feeble and tired; and they point out marks on some horses which are believed to have come from such riders. They put the head of a dead horse under the forage in the manger, because … this will chase off the Maars.

The Romans ascribed a similar illness to a wicked nightmare demon whom they called Faunus ficarius. The signs of this illness were emaciation, violent unrest at night, and agonizing pains. The Greeks knew the same type of demon who made horses timid and restless and called him Taraxippus. This demon was venerated in the hippodromes in Olympia, on the Isthmus, and at Nemea. As a rule he was considered a hero, i.e., an ill-natured spirit of the dead, but other interpretations took him to be, for example, the giant Ischenus, other giants and titans, and even Poseidon. The question about the nature of Taraxippus entered a new stage through the interesting essay by Pernice on an old Corinthian picture that shows a dwarflike, beardless, and definitely erotic demon who stands behind the rider at the base of the horse's tail and clasps his very prominent phallus with both hands. (An “apelike squatting” teasing spook is said to be found on a vase from Tragliatella, but this was not accessible to me.) He is almost certainly a Taraxippus. We see a demon of similar build on another ancient Corinthian slab in which he stands in front of a potter’s oven. Considering the erotic character of this demon, various completions are possible; most of them would translate as libidinous, wanton; rake and perversion are also possible. Pernice has interpreted this as one of the malicious kobolds who, according to the Homeric pottery blessing (kaminos he kerameis), create mischief in the potter’s oven by wrecking the vessels. Robert [95] already considered these oven kobolds to be a type of satyr. This could be correct, although all the characteristics borrowed from the goat or horse are absent in the demon portrayed on the Corinthian slab. As Furtwängler first recognized, grotesque dancers with conspicuously enormous bellies and pelvis and often a huge penis appear in ancient Corinthian ceramics in place of the here completely unknown satyrs and silenes, who are very like the Taraxippus and this oven kobold. We may, moreover, take this opportunity to recollect that in Sophocles’s satyr play Heracles at Taenarum helots take the place of the satyr. In the Corinthian satyrlike potbellies one automatically thinks of Hesiod’s [96] coarse characterization of the uneducated, uncouth shepherd: “Shepherds sleeping in the open, consisting of stomachs only, dastardly scoundrels.”

Nevertheless we may take it for granted that there was an inner relationship between these two demons based on the common connection to the erotic nightmare and to panicky terrors, i.e., the shying of animals.

In closest association with these views of Pan as a nightmare demon and exciter of panicky terrors as well as certain veterinary diseases is the fact that he was also considered to be the originator of epilepsy and mental illness. Definitive evidence for the ancient beliefs on Pan’s relation to epilepsy is found in the Medea of Euripides where it says of the onset of Creusa’s disease (caused by the poisoned garment of Medea) that to begin with the illness gave the impression of an epileptic attack brought about by Pan, in so far as the sudden rigors, the falling on the ground, and the pallor are the three main signs of epilepsy. The ancient scholiast already summed up the position when he remarked of the words “That frenzy was of Pan or some god sent” that “men assumed from time immemorial that those who suddenly fell (the epileptics) were deranged by Pan or Hecate.”

Recognizing the inner connection between such epileptic attacks and panicky terror and the sudden mental disturbances arising from it, he adds further: “The reason for sudden frights and mental disturbances they ascribe to Pan.” Modern medicine also holds that a sudden violent terror frequently produces spasmodic forms of epilepsy, St. Vitus’s dance, asthma, and indeed even mental disturbance. Abortion following a sudden shock also belongs in this context. This gave rise to the theory that the demons of panicky terror are dangerous to pregnant and puerperal women and that they cause the feared puerperal fever with its attendant delirium. Aretaeus of Cappadocia has observed with remarkable accuracy that many epileptics imagine directly before the attack that they are being persecuted by a horrible wild animal or a ghost and have all kinds of evil and strange dreams as well as peculiar aural hallucinations that remind us of the visual and acoustic phenomena of Pan’s anger in Longus. It is interesting that Hippocrates does not mention Pan among the demons to whom popular belief ascribed the origin of epilepsy (Cybele, Poseidon, Enoida [=Hecate], Apollon Nomios [?], Ares, the Heroes). The reason is probably that in the time of Hippocrates the cult of the ancient Arcadian shepherd god had not yet extended to the island of Cos and the coast of Asia Minor.

Pan, as author of severe and sometimes fatal epileptic attacks, which occasionally were not convulsive and could then give the impression of death, could eventually become a vicious death demon, as is shown by an incantatory tablet found in a grave near Constantine. These tablets were inscribed with a curse and buried in a grave to establish contact with the Underworld. The inscription says: “He (the one to be cursed) shall be carried away, so that you (the death demon) shall make him devoid of feeling, memory, breath, that he shall become a shadow of himself.” The rest is illegible. The demon portrayed on the tablet is described by Wunsch as follows: “In the ancient times the demon who was invoked had the split hairy hoofs of a he-goat and was armed with two slings and a hook.” Loss of feeling, consciousness, memory, speech, and withholding of the breath are familiar symptoms of epilepsy, and it is therefore my conjecture that it is not improbable to consider Pan, in the form of the goat-footed demon, as the originator of nightmares and epileptic fits. In conclusion we may once again recollect the view of Soranus that the nightmare is incipient epilepsy. This claim, as we have just seen, now appears to be quite natural and also comprehensible from the viewpoint of ancient popular belief.

Thus Pan finally developed into being an originator of mental disturbance (mania). (Incidentally, I would like to draw attention to how closely related the two concepts of mania and epilepsy are.) As such Pan appears in the writings of Euripides, who in Hippolytus makes the chorus say to the lovefrenzied Phaedra:

"Maiden, thou must be possessed, by Pan made frantic or by Hecate, or by the Corybantes dread, and Cybele the mountain mother."

The scholiast adds: “Enthusiasts are those whose reason has been robbed by an apparition and who are possessed by the god who has appeared to them and executed his orders.” This observation of the ancient commentator is psychologically quite correct in so far as hallucinations, visions, and illusions are in fact the surest sign of mental illness and first appear in the dreams of the insane; this fact is in complete harmony with the observation made in ancient times that heavy dreams – and nightmares in particular – precede the onset of epilepsy and insanity. Thus it can be easily understood how Pan, the agent of nightmares, visions, hallucinations, and epileptic attacks had to become the originator of mental diseases. Two further facts contributed to this: the first is the experience of a sudden violent fright, as the phasmata of Pan usually cause, frequently producing not merely epileptic fits but severe mental disturbances as well; the second is the panicky terror of animals and men, interpreted as mania or fits of rage and therefore attributed to the demons who elsewhere, too, induced madness or insanity according to the ancient point of view.

There is the story of Pausanias (10.23.7) about the panicky terror that befell the Gauls under Brennus at Delphi in the year 278 BCE, which was actually called mania. In order to justify further the equal position of panicky terror and insanity in the classical period, I should like to draw attention to the relative frequency of epidemic nightmares and insanity, i.e., that a large number of individuals succumb at the same time, which again resembles panicky terror. In the following passage we learn of such an instance of epidemic insanity in the form of cynanthropy or pycanthropy traced back to Pan, where it says of Pan and Echo: “Pan is enraged with the girl because he envies her music and because he is ugly. He cements the shepherds and goat herdsmen. They tear the girl apart like wolves or dogs and throw her limbs in all directions. The limbs however go on singing.” There is also further evidence of Pan being the inciter of insanity elsewhere." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 3:03 am

Hillmand Roscher wrote:
"Of the modern Greek words for the nightmare, mora is by far the most widely used. It seems to have taken its origin from the Slavic because the nightmare is called mora in Polish and mura in Bohemian. Grimm has connected it with the German mar (Anglo-Saxon moere, English “nightmare,” French cauchemar(e) from – “trample upon,” “squeeze” – and mar meaning nightmare).

The name Inuus stands out clearly as the oldest of all the Latin appellations of the nightmare. It first occurs in Virgil (Aeneid, 6.775), but seems to be used here in the sense of the camp of Inuus. Its antiquity is also emphasized by Rutilius Namatianus. The ancients identified Inuus with Faunus (Pan) and liked to derive the name from inire in the sense of concumbere (“to lie together”). This seems hardly plausible on phonetic grounds because in this instance we should expect an earlier form in-i-vus. It seems much more probable that Inuus is no more than a word form that has arisen from the preposition “in” (“on,” “upon,” “to,” “toward'') by means of appending the suffix -vus, which after n had to change to -uus (compare in-gen-uus). One has to take for granted that this word form was employed for the nightmare demons in the very apt sense of “someone squatting or sitting on another,” obviously in an erotic sense.

Closely related to Inuus in concept are the two terms In-cub-o and In-cub-us, which apparently classify the demon as the “sitter-on,” i.e., a demonic being lying on the sleeper and being a burden. It should be noted at this point that cubare, cubitare, concumbere, concubinus, concubitus, etc., were used primarily for sexual intercourse and that therefore incubo and incubus sometimes have a decidedly erotic secondary meaning. The use of incubus and succubus in the sense of “paramour devil” is known in the Middle Ages. Generally speaking incubus(-o) and inuus stand for an epithet of Faunus (Pan) or of Silvanus identified with Pan (faunus); on the other hand, incubus is also found as an appellative of Hercules in his role as the guardian of treasures and even appears once to have been thought of as a demon completely different from Faunus (Pan, Silvanus), who reveals or betrays treasures to the sleeper – just like the Greek Ephialtes – if the sleeper is able to rob him of his head covering. When incubo is used in the meaning of a guardian of treasures, it is well to note that incubare is often used of zealous watching, guarding money, or treasures, etc.

Since the first century CE, the term fauni (fatui) ficarii is repeatedly found for nightmare demons, as for example Cornelius Celsius in Pelagonius: “The horses are frequently disturbed at night by faunus ficarius; they are then afflicted by the most horrible pains and the restlessness often causes emaciation.” Hieronymus in Esai writes: “Certain people call those whom many call fauni ficarii either incubi or satyres or silvestres (wood spirits).” According to Jordanis (who drew on Cassidor), the race of Huns originated from an intermixture of such fauni ficarii with witch-like women; and in old glossaries the Indo-Germanic word vudevasan is explained with satyrs and fauni ficarii. (Grimm says that the nightmare demons, fairies, and witches appear as butterflies and especially as moths whose caterpillars naturally live on or near trees.) Du Cange correctly relates the adjective ficarius to fig trees in his glossary, while Bochart thinks of ficus in the sense of fig warts (the Greek suke), i.e., the small swellings on the necks of goats and satyrs (pherea, verrucu/ae) which commonly appear in imagery. Du Cange’s view seems to be supported by Sicilian folk songs and Greek superstition, where even today fig trees are reputed to be the seats of evil spirits. Perhaps the indecent meaning of fig (sukon, Italian fica, French figue) is in context here. Compare also the Greek sukazein (“to gather ripe figs”).

That in fact nightmare demons are to be understood in the term pilosi follows not just from: “Fauni, however, are those whom the people call incubi or pilosi and who give answers when consulted by the pagans,” but also from Isidore of Seville (The Etymologies, 8.11.103): “Pilosi (”the hairy ones”) whom the Greeks call panitae, the Latins incubi or inui from indiscriminately copulating with animals, often indeed spring forth shamelessly; also to the women, and have intercourse with them. These demons the Gauls call by the name dusii, since they incessantly perform such filthiness.” In addition, the old Bohemian glosses of Wacerad says:

“The moruzzi pilosi, whom the Greeks call panitae, the Latins incubi, whose form is derived from the human but ends in the extremities of beasts.” We may recollect here that in Polish and modern Greek, mora signifies the nightmare demon. As regards the pilosi, the fact that the fauns or pilosi answer questions put to them shows that they are genuine nightmare demons. Obviously, the term pilosi specifies the nightmare demon as a rough-haired, shaggy being. This representation, as we have already seen, is quite simply explained by the rough-haired bedclothes made out of sheep and goat hides or wool. If these bedclothes impede the respiratory orifices of the sleeper, they will necessarily give rise to the concept of a rough-haired, goatlike nightmare demon. Thus we understand at the same time why the goat-shaped Pans, satyrs, and fauns necessarily came to be considered as nightmare demons: because in those days goatskins or sheep skins or cloaks made of goats’ hair and sheep’s wool were used to protect the sleepers from cold and inclement weather.

Finally there remain the Gallic dusii. These were first mentioned by Augustinus and were characterized as nightmare demons lying in wait for women. Since almost all the evidence for these has already been carefully assembled by Alfred Holder (Altceltischer Sprachschatz, I: 1387ff.), I can justifiably dispense with reproducing it here. The dusii were thought to live in woods and on hills like the Pans, fauns, and sylphs. Dusius has now become “deuce.” The word dus-ii is probably connected with the Greek dus-, Sanskrit dus-, Parsee dush-i-ti (“misery”), old Irish du-, and denotes the nightmare demons as wicked spirits." [Pan and the Nightmare]


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PostSubject: Re: Pan in Arkadia Thu Dec 08, 2016 3:05 am

Hillman and Roscher wrote:
"I shall conclude this consideration of Pan-Ephialtes with its expressed objective of specifying as completely as possible the reasons why the ancient Arcadian shepherd god became a nightmare demon – by alluding to the erotic impulse attributed to him at all times and especially in innumerable sculptures. One should remember his roughhaired, he-goat image, which he shares with other nightmare demons, because, as we have seen, the usual bedding in ancient times was the skin of a goat or cloth made of goat's hair, which by its very nature must have conjured up the appearance of goatlike nightmare demons in the person afflicted with the nightmare. We may think of the appearance of the he-goat to Sinonis, the satyr in Philostratus, appearing as a nightmare demon – probably also in semi-goat form – and finally we may remember the Germanic Bocksmahrte (lit. “he-goat nightmare”), the Hafergeiss (lit. “oat-goat,” presumably from the erotic connotation of oats; cf. the English “to sow wild oats”), and lastly the he-goat as the mount of the Murawa and Trude.

The satyrs sometimes appear as nightmare demons in absolutely genuine erotic nightmares. This is easily understandable because in this respect as in many other ways the satyrs are closely related to Pan whose image they represent, distorted into the vulgar, comical, burlesque, and mischievous. The satyrs also originated in Argos. Like Pan, they are goatshaped demons; their relation to him is virtually the same as that of the little Pans who – as is evident from Wernicke’s collection of illustrations on vases – are visually completely identical with the satyrs and are constantly mistaken for them in modern descriptions. The word he-goat is equally suitable for both of them. The position is similar with the so-called “horned satyrs” who frequently cannot be differentiated from the human-legged Pan. They have the partial or complete shape of a goat in common with Pan, as is evident from their permanent designation he-goat or titiros (actually a long-tailed monkey) and from their representation on ancient Attic vases with red figures, which have been excellently dealt with by Wernicke (Hermes XXXII, 297ff.). Furthermore, they are shaggy and possess an irresistible erotic impulse. These characteristics are all common to other nightmare demons, too. Compare also the satyr Lasios of the Munich drinking bowl, and the names of satyrs found on vases: Peos (“phallos”), Sybas (“sybarite”), Stygon (“erector”), Poston (“little tail”), Eraton (“lecher”). In other respects, however, they closely resemble the kobolds of the Germans and other northern races, who also frequently appear as nightmare demons. Here belongs their pronounced propensity to all kinds of practical jokes and pranks which they would even play against the mighty Hercules. Moreover, there is their passion for stealing, plundering, and deceiving, just like the wicked kobolds are wont to do. The cercops are very similar in their nature. They are also incapable of any work; they are plunderers and thieves. Their lasciviousness is probably expressed in their very name (kerkos = phallus).

How old and widespread was the belief in Faunus as a sender of prophetic dreams appears evident from the incubation rites described by Virgil about an oracle of Faunus in a sacred grove that surrounded the source of the Tiburtine sybil Albunea. Likewise in Ovid these rites had to be observed if a revelation in a dream was desired from Faunus: First of all, sheep had to be sacrificed and then the pilgrims had to lie down to sleep on the skins of the slaughtered animals in the grove sacred to Faunus. In addition, a coronation with beech leaves, chastity, abstinence, and the removal of finger rings were necessary. In most primitive races a frugal diet or fasting is the chief means for securing visions and prophetic dreams, as is evident from the excellent observations of Tylor. This ritual, as Preller rightly notes, gives the impression of being very ancient indeed and agrees strikingly with the Greek customs of incubation.

Faunus – just as Pan – displays himself in optical and acoustic phenomena of all kinds, which for the most part produce horror. The main passage on this point is found in Dionysius of Halicarnassus and runs: “For the Romans attribute panics to this divinity; and whatever apparitions come to men’s sight, now in one shape and now in another, inspiring terror, or whatever supernatural voices come to their ears to disturb them, are the work, they say, of this god.”

The characterization of Picus and Faunus given by Plutarch (Numa, 15) in connection with the familiar ancient Roman legend where Numa overpowers these two demons, says that, as genuine nightmare demons, “they renounce their own nature by taking up various forms and shapes and conjure up terrifying visions before men's eyes. They predict much of the future and inform men about it,” particularly when they are sodden with wine and held fast. Similarly, Ovid says of the dream god Icelos or Phobetor: “[He] takes the form of beast or bird or the long serpent. Him the gods call Icelus, but mortals name him Phobetor.” Compare also Ludwig Laistner’s Riddle of the Sphinx, vol. 1: 62ff., 87ff., 92f., and vol. 2: 4f., on the metamorphoses of nightmare demons. Other nightmare demons can also be induced to prophesy and impart useful instruction or perform useful services if they are intoxicated with wine or are seized and held fast. That these concepts of Faunus are not borrowed from the cult and myth of the Greek Pan, but are of genuine Italian origin is primarily guaranteed by the very old historic legend of the battle in the wood Arsia where either Faunus or Silvanus –like to him in nature and therefore identified with him – inspired the enemy with panicky terror by nightly acoustic phenomena and thus decided the issue in favor of the Romans. The belief of the Roman people in the acoustic and visual phenomena of Faunus was indeed so deep-rooted that one could even venture to explain the name of the god on this basis: According to Servius, Faunus was to be derived from the Greek phone = “utterance,” while Hesychius interprets the name from phainon anion = “the one who shows himself.” Other sources attribute the same significance to the visual as to the acoustic phenomena of Faunus. We have already seen that attempts were made to derive Pan from phainein = “show” on the same grounds. Certain equine illnesses with emaciation and nocturnal unrest for symptoms were also attributed to Fatuus ficarius, i.e., Faunus, as a nightmare demon.

The following prayer of Horace directed to him shows that he was generally thought of as both sender of and protector against animal diseases, in particular those of young sheep and kids:

"Across my farm in sunshine bright
Come gently, and retire from sight
Kind to my cattle's young."

Porphyrion explains here: “He invokes Faunus who is said to be a low and pestilential god.” Compare also Acron on this passage: “the young calves, which the Fauns are said to harm most” and Servius: “Horace represents Faunus as injurious, saying: “Come gently.’ ”
There is no direct tradition that Faunus was like Pan held to be the producer of insanity, but this is not improbable when we consider that the mantle ecstasy or divination inspiration was at all times interpreted as “frenzy” (furoris divinalis), just as prophecy through dreams was always connected with Faunus (Faluus) and his wife Fauna (Faina). Faunus therefore received the appellatives fatidicus, Fatuclus, and Faluus (“prophet”); and the oldest sayings and prophesies of the inhabitants of Italy in the saturnal or “faunish” scansion were attributed to him. I have perceived in this a definite parallel to Pan, who dispensed oracles “from time immemorial” and whose prophetess is said to have been the nymph Erato, the wife of Arcas. A collection of prophecies comparable to those of the sibyls circulated under her name even as late as Pausanias that Dionysius Periegetes claimed to have read himself.

We cannot prove definitely that Faunus, even before being equated with Pan, was represented as a mixture of goat and man (that is, with a goat's horns and legs) like Pan, but it is certain that his ancient Roman “wolf priests”, the Luperci, were called “creppi,” i.e., he-goats, because they were clothed only in goat skins, and that Faunus himself was represented pictorially in this attire, which reminds one of that of the satyrs who were equally called he-goats. The sacrifice of male and female goats which was customary in the cults of both Pan and of Faunus is of course closely associated.

Again, like Pan and Faunus, Silvanus was held to be an originator of panicky terror, particularly through acoustic phenomena; hence the terror-awakening call in the battle in the Arsian wood was sometimes ascribed to Silvanus and sometimes to Faunus. Varro (as quoted by Augustine) suggests the belief that Silvanus also brought about the terrifying visions and dangerous deliria of puerperal fever when he says: “Post-parturient women are watched over by three gods so that Silvanus should not break in at night and vex them. In order to signify these guardians, three men patrol the threshold at night and first hit the threshold with an axe followed by a pestle and finally sweep the threshold with a broom. These signs show that the house is occupied and should prevent Silvanus from entering. For neither can trees be felled and cut without iron, nor can corn be prepared without a pestle, nor can the harvest be heaped up without the broom. From these three things the gods derive their names: Intercidona from the fall of the axe, Pilumnus from the pestle (pilus), and Deverra from the broom. The powers of these three gods guard the post-parturient woman from the god Silvanus.” Augustine adds further: “Therefore the watch of the just would not prevail against the wrath of the malicious god if there were not several against one to repulse him, who is rough, uncultivated, and repugnant, as from the woods, with the signs of cultivation which are opposed to his nature.” (Possibly the “certain illnesses” of the moonstruck [somnambulists] in Macrobius [120] partly relate to puerperal fevers, inparticular where fatal illnesses are concerned. The belief that post-parturient women were especially endangered by wicked demons and must be protected against them is very widespread indeed.) It was obviously taken for granted that the same demon who importuned women in nightmares also appeared to them in the deliria of puerperal fever and could become dangerous. The same is true of the goat-shaped koutsodaimonas of the modern Greeks, who most probably corresponds to the ancient Greek Pan. He has “a very long chin with a beard (goat’s beard), his eyes are embedded in wiry hair, and he has the voice of a goat. He not only assaults young girls, but is also dangerous to post-parturient and pregnant women because he butts their abdomens with his horns”.

Not only the post-parturient women but also the newborn infants were believed to be in danger from Silvanus, as is evident from a fragment of Varro: “If the child is born alive and has been picked up by the midwife, it is laid on the ground to ensure favorable auspices; an offering is prepared in the house for Pilumnus and Picumnus, the gods of matrimony.” Servius comments on Virgil, Aeneid 10, 76: “Varro attests that Pilumnus and Picumnus are the gods of newborn infants and that an offering is prepared for them in the atrium on behalf of the post-parturient woman to enquire whether the newborn baby is fit to survive.” We see here that Pilumnus and Picumnus had to protect not only the mother but her newborn infant as well. There would also seem to have been a belief that Silvanus abducted and exchanged children (changelings), which is supported by the superstition still current in the South Tyrolean Fassa Valley that the Salvegn (= Silvani) frequently exchange children. As a final point it is worth noting that Silvanus also corresponds to Pan and Faunus in that he, too, sometimes takes on the form of a he-goat, receives goats as sacrifical victims, and is roughhaired and shaggy; all these characteristics have contributed to no small degree to his development into a nightmare demon.

The old Indian nightmare demons, the Gandharves and Rakshas, show a remarkable similarity to Pan, Faunus, Silvanus, and the satyrs. Covered in hides and skins, they dance and rage in the woods in the evening, they avoid the daylight; they skip around the houses, braying like a donkey.Taking on the shape of a brother or father, or muffled up, or in hideous deformity, they appear hunchbacked and humped, flabby bellied with excessive torso, black hair, bristly, unkempt, and with the stench of a goat. The most effective antidote against them is a yellow, strong-smelling herb – Baja or Pinga or Ayacringi (goatshorn) – which plays the same part as the peonies in Greek and Roman superstition. They lie in wait for sleeping women, at the wedding procession, at the first nuptials, and just after childbirth; they haunt the women as licentious, permanently excited sex spirits with large testicles, and they enjoy killing newborn infants. They abide in darkly shaded places (cf. Silvanus) and they are capable of driving women into a frenzy. They are rough-haired and hence compared with monkeys and dogs. Their female counterparts are the Apsaras, who are comparable to the elves, nymphs, and sirens and are almost the same as the Gandharves." [Pan and the Nightmare]

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