Arktos London 2018 Copyright © 2018 by Arktos Media Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means (whether electronic or mechanical), including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Originally published as Maschera e volto dello spiritualismo contemporaneo. Italy, 1971. Arktos.com | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Gab.ai ISBN 978-1-912079-34-6 (Paperback) 978-1-912079-33-9 (Hardback) 978-1-912079-32-2 (Ebook) Translation John Bruce Leonard Editing Martin Locker Cover Design Andreas Nilsson Layout Tor Westman Translator’s Introduction I N 1932, JULIUS EVOLA, still then a youngish man fast upon the brink of those ideas that would render him famous (or infamous) in time to come, published a book of ostensible critique on the variety of “spiritualist” forms, schools, cults and teachers which then was much in vogue in his society and in the wider West, entitled Maschera e volto dello spiritualismo contemporaneo. The book was destined to be quickly overshadowed (not to say eclipsed altogether) by his subsequent publication, just two years later, of Revolt Against the Modern World, and, despite being twice republished by Evola himself with certain suggestive alterations, was finally after his death to settle to the level of what are largely and rather passively considered Evola’s secondary works. For us in the Anglophone world, the easiest index of this unofficial hierarchy is given by the order in which Evola’s books have received translation; this reflects, not certainly the inherent worth of these books, but rather the importance which is more or less granted them by primarily Italian Evolian criticism today. It is then not particularly inspiring to realize that the present work has been one of the last of all Evola’s works to find its way into English. Yet what we have just said bears emphasis: the assumption that a given Evolian work is “secondary” often enough reflects less the quality of the book itself, than the miscomprehensions of its readers and critiques, owing in many cases to the nature of the time in which we live and the suspicion and carelessness which has attended to Evola’s name (whenever it has been considered) almost since the end of the War. Even more glaring examples could be given of such misunderstandings, but we limit ourselves to consideration of the present book. Mask and Face of Contemporary Spiritualism has been relegated to the lesser works of the Evolian oeuvre, we may suppose, for two principal reasons: first, it was originally published as a compilation of previously published essays, rather than as an independent and original whole; second, it treats of specific historical phenomena, and thus might appear outdated. Before we set out to uncover points of reference for approaching the book itself, it would be opportune to dispel both of these motives for that underestimation which the present work has so unjustly suffered. As to the first notion, that Mask and Face (as indeed several of Evola’s works) was originally a compilation of essays rather than an independent and original work, the implication being that it therefore deserves less consideration than a book written all at once and at a go, as it were — I have argued before (in my introductions to Recognitions and The Bow and the Club) that the mere fact that these books employ already published material hardly entitles us to take these works as mere compendia, of a level with, for instance, the great many posthumous volumes of Evola’s essays. These latter works have value in the pieces; but any work organized by Evola himself has value as a whole. To speak of no other concerns, the mere assembly of these essays demanded of Evola a certain discrimination and planning, unless we are to suppose that he went about their selection and ordering altogether haphazardly, on a whim, taking names at random and piling them one on top of another, just so — a notion which mocks itself in its very utterance, so ludicrous is it. The very act of choosing these essays, and not others, of placing them in this order, and not another, suggests that the book as a whole must be conferred a higher dignity than some miscellaneous arbitrary of “shorter writings.” This to say nothing of the fact that Evola never merely “compiled essays,” leaving the matter at that. The books that he formed of previously published material always included emendations, expansions, reworkings of the material in question, at Evola’s own hand; this fact forces us to consider the changes in question and to evaluate them —  which is equivalent to saying that we must take these works as independent works, and not as echo-filled repetitions or representations of prior statements. What we have said so far, despite the logic in it, might appear to have a flavor of mere supposition. Fortunately, we are not constrained to leave the matter at mere hypothesizing; we have definite biographical knowledge which comes to our aid here, to demonstrate the validity of what we have asserted. Mask and Face was not published just once, in 1932, but three separate times, once again in 1949, and yet again toward the end of Evola’s life in 1971, just three years before Evola’s demise. This fact alone attests to the importance which Evola ascribed to this book; but there is more. The first publication, though it did indeed employ prior essays, included also some totally new material, as the chapter on Catholicism. Both reprintings, too, came with additional material, original chapters which were added in each case, including a second conclusion. Nor can these merely be taken as “bringing the book up to date” with the newest follies in the world of neo-spiritualism, since the first major change in 1949 came with the addition of a key chapter on Nietzsche and Dostoevsky, both of whom had been dead for about half a century or more. In 1972, on the other hand, Evola added the chapter on Satanism, which, in the figures of Anton LaVey and the brief mention made of Charles Manson, certainly represented mere “recent developments”; less so, however, that of Aleister Crowley, who had already ascended to some higher plane twenty-five years before the third publication of this book. More: the additional material was not merely tacked on to the end of the book, as an afterthought, in final chapters or in appendices, as one would expect had the book itself been merely pasted together just so. The new chapters were rather interposed each time between the last and the penultimate. All of this attests to a unified, overarching, clear-sighted structure which Evola had in mind for this book, and one which absolutely nullifies the thesis that this book can be taken a priori as a work of secondary or marginal importance merely on account of its material. But what of that other charge — namely, that this book treats of a subject matter which has grown stale, speaking as it does of currents, movements, schools, etc. which are no longer much in fashion among the “spiritual seekers” of our time? Or, to phrase this argument otherwise: what was “contemporary” at the publication of this book on “contemporary spiritualism,” is no longer contemporary to us; we are living a fundamentally different circumstance, and the “trends” and dangers for us have altered, so that Evola’s treatment, while it might be interesting from the standpoint of, say, historical studies, cannot have a great deal of relevance for us today. Why then should we read this book at all, supposing that particular historical investigation does not interest us? There are three responses which may, and must, be opposed to this claim. The first of these has already been suggested: Evola’s intentional addition to this book of material relating to figures from the last century suggests that his idea of what is “contemporary” cannot be reduced to an arc of time containing but a decade here or there of the past century. The contemporary issues from certain principles, founts, roots; these origins, so far from being the spontaneous, superficial, ephemeral outgrowths of some mere moment, are in fact deeply bound to modernity itself, to an entire epoch and an entire turning of the cycle; and the identification of these sources therefore gives us the ability to evaluate all the manifestations that they produce within that cycle, within our time. The second response is but the empirical testimony of the first: for in point of fact, the critiques that Evola makes in this work are exceedingly relevant to our day, as anyone will be able to perceive who has spent any quantity of time amongst the “spiritual seekers” of today, and who has considered Evola’s critique in a more than simply superficial way. The names will have changed — fewer today speak of Madame Blavatsky or Rudolf Steiner, and Krishnamurti is perhaps less known among our youths than, say, John Lennon (a sad commentary, to be sure); LaVey’s fifteen minutes of fame have surely come and gone, and, despite any number of vulgar television programs that might suggest the contrary, the furor for parapsychic research and mediumship is not what it once was. Yet anyone who knows anything at all about these figures or schools or practices, or who attentively reads Evola’s own exposition on them, will easily be able to find their parallels today. The “New Age” movement is strong as ever, and names like Carlos Castaneda, Edgar Cayce and Sogyal Rinpoche still crop up among the “studies” of the young; Jung, Gurdjieff, and Crowley (men considered in this book) are still topical; the need and the aching hunger of any number of individuals for something deeper than materialism, something solider than science, something more meaningful than technology, is palpable in any number of turns taken by certain tentacles of the modern world; and the figures that arise today to fulfill this need are but the faded echoes or wan watermarks of those that Evola critiques, which were, for all their failings, nonetheless at least more vivid than their present-day counterparts. The relevance of Evola’s words to our situation will be manifest to anyone who does not let himself be deceived by the fact that the mere individuals of whom he speaks have all found the grave. The final response to this dismissal of Mask and Face will form, in a certain sense, the remainder of our introduction. The idea that Mask and Face is a dated piece of purely critical work implies the necessary corollary that there is nothing “positive” in this work, no message beyond the merely censorious attempt to deconstruct this or that man or edifice. This work, to speak popularly, “tears down without building up.” Let us see how far this estimation holds water. The Criticism and the Purpose of Mask and Face The Mask and Face of Contemporary Spiritualism is the only book in the Evolian oeuvre to bear the word “spiritualism” in its very title. Evola wrote a great number of works dedicated to specific facets, schools, or doctrines of the spiritual problem (Hermetism, magic, Yoga, Taoism, etc.), but none about spiritualism as an overarching problem. It would appear that the present work, then, can in some sense be taken as his treatment of spiritualism as such. This would appear to be qualified, however, by the fact that this book treats, not of spiritualism as such, but of contemporary spiritualism. This would suggest that the subject of the book is not in fact the problem of spiritualism as such, so much as a simple refutation or critique or analysis of the modern spiritualistic misdirections. The name of the book would indeed appear to implicate a kind of unmasking, a revelation of the charlatanism and mendacity which is the true substratum of any number of contemporary “spiritualistic” movements. Evola, to be sure, was one of the few men of his generation competent to submit such a critique, given that he knew the Tradition with an intimacy and immediacy which few others could boast, and at the same time knew the contemporary world, in all its aspects, with a directness that perhaps no other man of his level could, or rather say would, match. We will return to this last circumstance, but suffice it here to say that the close attention that Evola gave to all manner of contemporaneous developments in culture and politics at practically every level of his society was something sui generis for a man of his rank and orientation. Thus it is meet that it should be Evola to carry through this “unmasking.” At first glance, therefore, The Mask and Face of Contemporary Spiritualism enters decidedly into that category of Julius Evola’s writing which might be called, for the convenience of taxonomy, his critical work — that is, it is a book which would seem to deal with the books, the thought, the schools, the teachings of men other than Evola himself — as opposed to a work of Evola’s own thought, conceptions, and philosophies. To that extent, it cannot simply be called his work on spiritualism. Yet this neat division almost immediately collapses the moment one lays hands upon it. In the first place it must be recognized that, with the possible exceptions of Evola’s yet- untranslated works on the Absolute Individual, and, perhaps, his Synthesis of the Doctrine of Race, nothing written by Evola can be considered “original” in the degraded, para-Nietzschean sense that we like to use that word — which is to say, in the sense of something created ex nihilo, something which originates of itself, and is itself a first origin. Indeed, this very idea is deeply inimical to the entire purpose and cast of Evola’s life work, which was nothing if not an attempt to reclaim the true, unchangeable doctrine from under the rubble of the contemporary world — that doctrine, uncreated and unspoiled by man or by man’s small and ephemeral personality; that doctrine which springs like cool crystalline water from hidden founts: that doctrine which alone is capable of bringing the individual to a greater self, a greater awareness, a truer personality. That is to say, Evola’s “original” work truly is original, but original in the original sense: it gets us back to the origins, the ever-living fount from which alone man too might become, at least comparatively, at least in some aspect of his contingency and his caducity, deathless. In this light, all of Evola’s work must be regarded as referring back to something which is “not his own”; all of his work is to that extent is a “critique.” Yet this too is a problematic statement: Evola himself might prefer to say that the doctrine he sought belongs precisely to what is most truly his own, most truly belonging to his personality in the Evolian sense, and that he was certainly not submitting a critique of the Tradition in the sense of attempting to understand its failings as well as its strengths, since it and it alone is the standard by which any failings can be rightly measured, and without it as standard man necessary freefalls into an abyss of relativism and nihilism. (See Evola’s critique of Nietzsche in Chapter VIII of the present work.) Thus the distinctions which we are pleased to draw in literature begin to sheer apart the moment they begin, wave-like, to beat up against the rock of Evola’s thought. Let us renew the attempt. One part of Evola’s work would seem to be dedicated to reclaiming, recapturing, and publishing (within the natural limits imposed by language and by the special duties of the exoteric promulgator) the teachings of a perennial tradition, while another part would seem to be dedicated to critiquing and “deconstructing” the ideas, errors, and actions of the contemporary world. The barrier is of course somewhat permeable, as both categories admit aspects of the other; but While Revolt Against the Modern World or Ride the Tiger, for instance, present positive visions, Fascism Viewed from the Right or The Myth of the Blood are primarily, if not negative, then certainly neutral in their rigorous presentation of certain ideas. And Mask and Face of Contemporary Spiritualism, by this new taxonomy, belongs to this latter category. Yet even here the distinction does not long abide. With the single exception of The Myth of the Blood (and, as I indicate in my introduction to my translation of that work, it is dubious to what extent even it is an exception; if one takes it, as Evola himself did, as the first half of a longer work with his Synthesis as its coping stone, then it is far from being an exception), there is no work penned by Evola in a spirit of simple critique alone. It can be taken indeed as a rule of thumb that critique in Evola is always but the means to some higher goal; Evola was eminently a philosopher in this sense, for he was without doubt one of the most judicious and fairest men of his time, and could not look upon even the most inimical philosophies or positions without arriving at a balanced assessment of their virtues and their faults. But the philosopher, unlike the critic, does not judge for the sake of judging; he judges to attain the higher view, a more complete vision, some nearer approximation of the truth, which transcends the realm of merest critique, and leads one a step nearer to a positive vision. More yet: Evola was not merely a philosopher; he transcended philosophy by demonstrating its limits — and thereby overreaching them. (This, primarily, in this untranslated work on the Absolute Individual; let it also be noted that the distinction here applies mostly to academic or to modern philosophy; it begins to dissolve when one approaches the highest philosophers, as Plato, Plotinus, — Nietzsche?) Evola was a “spiritualist,” an exotericist, a Traditionalist. For this reason alone, never could the criticism be brought against Evola which is often enough, for instance, brought against Nietzsche (to what extent fairly is question for another place): namely, that he tore down without building up. Evola’s from start to finish is nothing but a positive position, and critique is only incidental to the expression or in some cases the revelation of this positive vision. What is the nature then of that critique? Why should such critique be at all necessary, if the positive vision is present all along? Why not, in other words, have recourse directly to the positive vision of the Traditional world, and send the “revolt against the modern world” to the devil, where it would seem to belong? One possible answer to this question is suggested by the arc and thrust of the present work. The knowledge, awareness, and direct connection to the positive Traditional vision depends decisively in the individual on an induction into that knowledge, which in the past was rigorously supplied by any number of regular initiatory orders, or, in high civilizations, by the socio-religious order itself. In both cases, promulgation of the exoteric teaching was left in the hands of the competent authorities, wise both in the Tradition and in the nature of their historical moment, while the inner teaching could be revealed to those who were drawn to it through that magnetism or inner vocation which some men are, for reasons mysterious, born possessing. Our day is not such a day. It is needless to speak of society itself, nor the order and structure of our governments; the utter and even proud detachment from spiritual things on the governmental level (the so-called “secularism” and “separation of Church and State”) leaves no room to doubt its relation — or lack thereof — with any transcendent dimension; and official and organized religions have likewise faltered in this respect. (See Chapter VII below, in which Evola submits a deep critique of Catholicism and Christianity, and presents some of his clearest statements on them both in any of his published work.) As for the initiatic route — and this fact, which it is easy to pass over, forms in truth one of the great fateful transformations of our contemporary West — it has been, if not utterly abolished in the West, then sharply reduced in its centers and its scope. Evola himself in The Bow and the Club said that he had an ongoing friendly debate with a certain esotericist of his time as to whether or not there were any true initiatic orders left in the West, or if they had not rather, confronted with the crisis of our times, withdrawn to the East, where moreover they became closed to and suspicious of Western newcomers (see Chapter 17 of that work). This fateful change has brought about two related consequences. In the first place, any man of the West who is presented, without any preparation whatsoever, with some element, teaching, doctrine, or viewpoint of the Tradition, will be utterly unable to recognize it for what it is, will easily confound it with the “system” or the “teaching” of this or that mountebank, will stare upon it uncomprehending and pass over it in indifference, nor necessarily for any fault of his own. Likewise, those who sense the penury of the times, who see our gross, glittering, tumescent modernity for the hollow monster that it is, and perceive that anywhere one presses too hard upon its golden, gem- and light-studded exterior, one might easily bore a hole in it that threatens to deflate the entire thing — anyone, I say, with even the least intimation of this truth, is bound to seek out something with which to fill this profane and terrifying void yawning behind the gaudy exterior. Some will proceed to the “traditional” Western forms, become Catholics or Protestants or what have you; others, skeptical of “established religion” for any number of reasons, both good and bad, or perhaps merely infected with the contemporary love of novelty and its tacit despite of the West, will turn to the “East” — meaning, of course, those poor Western simulacra of a deep, rich, right Eastern Tradition which have migrated into our societies in the form of “Buddhist temples” and “Zen centers” and “Hare Krishna movements” and any number of like notions ported into the West like tourist memorabilia, all of which, rather than bringing Eastern substance to Western emptiness, have rather brought Western emptiness to Eastern forms. Yet others will turn away completely, seeking their fare and fortune by other routes entirely — through the teachings or revelations of this or that spiritist, medium, anthroposophist, “guru,” etc. etc. All of these men, guided and forced on by a vague, undefined longing within them, will cast about blindly until they have set their hands on some bauble or other in the dark, of uncertain worth and dubious content. Having no clear idea of what it is they seek, how ever can they find it? How many of them will be able to attain it — and in those few cases that succeed, will it finally be luck or some secret inner gravity or the intercession of some god to lead them hence? And how many of them rather will succumb to the dangers lurking secretly in the deep places about them? These are the conditions which determine Evola’s approach: Evola, as any master, must adapt the teaching to the day in which he lives. Useless would it be (and perhaps worse than useless) to publish simple descriptions or investigations of the Tradition as such, with no preparatory work standing behind it, disconnected from every form of pedagogy or propaedeutic: for almost no one would be of a grade to recognize it, and even many of those who were would be able to draw no right worth from what they saw, or else would draw the wrong conclusions and would stray dangerously as a consequence, since they, conditioned by the errors of the day, should begin with only the most vulgar and externalistic appreciation of all of this. There is wanted an education, which is experiential before it is intellectual; and this book is eminently the preparation for such an education, in the sense of inducting those who are ready willingly and consciously into ever higher points of view. But this answer to the question of Evola’s reason for providing this education does not alone suffice. Well might it be asked why Evola should care for the stragglers — those of us who, despite perchance some inner promise or potential, have nonetheless not succeeded, like him, in penetrating the veils? Or, if this is too cruel a question — for it is normal enough for a human being to love those who are or could become his ilk — let us generalize it: why should Evola care at all for his floundering civilization? Why not himself become a monk, an anchorite, withdrawing to the fastness of some mountain cavern or the exclusiveness of some occult brotherhood to pass his days in the most rigorous asceticism, letting the torrent of the West find its own level? This question will press us toward the soul of the book, which is itself a window into one of the deepest, most characteristic, and most intriguing problems regarding Evolian spiritualism, and Evola himself. The Theme of Evasion The central theme of this book, by Evola’s proclamation, is evasion — in Italian evasione, a word which might also be translated as “escapism,” though I have avoided this temptation, first because “escapism” is all too Freudian a term, and then because, in the attempt to overcome “escapism,” one tends to return precisely to the world which Evola