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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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"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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"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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