[Fragment 1a-b]

A.E.M. Baumann

© 2018



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About The Knossian Oracles


Note to the Reader



The Knossian Oracles

      Περὶ Ποιητικῆς . . .

            1   2   3

      Daedalus in Tartarus

            4   5   6

      L'Origine, Salomé I

            7   8   9   10   11   12   13   14   15

            16   17

      L'Origine, Salomé II

            18   19   20   21   22   23   24

      The Night Sea Crossing

            25   26   27   28   29   30

      The Garden of Venus


      The Incantations of Isis and

            32   33   34   35   36   37   38   39

      Imago Dei

            40   41   42   43   44   45   46

      The Seven Dreams of Paris

            47   48   49   50   51   52

      The Axiom of Maria

            53   54   55   56   57   58   59   60

            61   62   63   64   65   66   67   68

            69   70   71   72   73   74   75   76

            77   78   79   80   81   82   83


And the Light Falls, Remir




      The Occult







      Table of Fragments

      An Incomplete Bibliography




to Hatter's Cabinet Main Page



A bee buzzing about a flower: as a metaphor for attraction it is, at best, timid, or under-nourished. For how discriminating is an insect jumping from flower to flower to flower, attracted more to the bed than any one blossom? A more lively phrase might be found if attention is moved away from general discrimination and toward action spurred by discovered and singular desire. Consider, for example, the mixed idea of a finger feeling its way through labial folds for a hooded pistil. A new path – though coupling a new danger: the resulting ideation diminishing to trivial and too obvious iconography. To rescue it we will hold still the original vehicle – the bee searching through petals for the drop of nectar known to be somewhere within – and set loose the tenor: where lies the nectar? the nape of your neck? under your foot? lying along your lowest ribs? or in the pocket between the second and third fingers of your left hand? Is it behind your ear? under your tongue? or your arm? or your lower eyelashes? Is it camouflaged in the color of your areola? concealed in the divot under your nose? lying low in the lines in the palm of your hand?

Yet have we escaped timidity? The flower may now have been transformed into a varied and polysensuous bed, but the singular bee is again become lost among possibilities and potentialities, flitting, giving little value or no measure to any one flower within the field.

So, in rebuttal to far more than timidity we accompany a particular Sunday stroller, eyes shaded by a straw hat, cane at pause in hand, standing before the flower bed piqued, intrigued, rapt in profane meditation upon one sacred blossom (in that moment singularly chosen, though on any