Krasylov, 1997. Metaecology-04. Creation. Soul. Conflict.

Heracles. Chapter 2. DOUBLERS. V.A. Krasilov. Metaecology. Moscow: Paleontological Institute of the RAS, 1997. 208 p. Part 4. Creation. Soul. Conflict. Connection. Chapter 3. RE‑CREATION. The world as will. Dissolution. Creation Not only biblical, but any god creates in his own image and likeness, i.e., essentially creates a double for himself. In this, as one may guess, lies the meaning of creativity. If God is a disc of the sun, he creates earth and sky as discs. A god, versed in Pythagorean symbolism of numbers, fashions the body of the cosmos, observing harmonic proportion as in Plato’s “Timaeus”. The principle of duplication, however, is observed here as well: the transcendent (“cognizable”) god creates the cosmos as a living being—the sensual god‑son—striving, as Plato says, “that all things become as much as possible like himself.” According to this theory, the body of the cosmos is filled with the soul of the cosmos, which contains its Mind or Word (which, essentially, is the same, given the notion long before Johann Gottfried Herder of the connection between consciousness and language). God did not succeed in creating an exact equivalent of eternity (since it belongs only to him), but gave it a double—time—and lit the heavenly luminaries for its measurement. The luminaries, in turn, served as prototypes of third‑order gods, and according to their number human souls were created, and the completion of the latter’s creation—again according to the principle of imitation—was entrusted to the gods. The technology of creation also evolves. Thus the most ancient Egyptian creator‑god simply spat out the first pair of derivative gods. The cosmos arose as a result of various physiological emissions. The evangelist John’s reasoning that “in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God” reflects an extremely archaic notion of the possibility to create things both by the force of unspeakable wishes and by spells (to these subconscious notions corresponds the still‑present fear of invoking misfortune with a careless word; after all, deep down we are all the same incantors). Associations with the Heraclitean Logos are hardly justified, because the Logos created gods, not the other way around. For Plato the god acted as an alchemist, mixing various substances in a vessel, and “rejoiced” when he saw that his created copy—the “statue”—lived and moved. In the Old Testament the story of the world’s creation is told twice, apparently because of the duality of the creator himself. In the first chapter of Genesis God creates by word (and God said, “Let there be firmament,” etc.) and is quite satisfied with the results (and saw that it was very good), in the second—by the labor of his hands, molding man from earth’s dust, planting paradise in Eden. Even the emergence of animals, which in the archaic version apparently were created by Adam naming them, receives a different interpretation: God brings them to Adam so that he may give them names. The whole order of creation has completely changed. If the god‑spell‑caster created man at the very end, then the god‑craftsman, it turns out, could not or did not see the point in creating field shrubs, field grass and other living beings until there was a man “for tilling the earth.” For him the first task was the creation of a double in his own image and likeness. Only after doing this does he experience a surge of creative energy and proceeds to arrange Eden and its settlement. This god, unlike his self‑satisfied double produced in the first chapter, never experiences complete satisfaction with what he has done, but continues to create, supplement (the man with his double‑wife), destroy and correct. His dissatisfaction with man belongs to the realm of double conflict (see below). Considering these double versions of creation as an allegory of creativity per se, we note that any creative process operates on two levels—metaphysical and real. Any creative individual begins with the creation of a metaphysical double, for which everything is made. The double acts as an ideal reader, listener, viewer, etc. Of course, the most fitting candidate for this role is, naturally, God, our primordial double. Indeed, the most exalted works of human genius are addressed to God. But already ancient man, standing out from the mass and acquiring individuality, needed a more intimate double and witness, not a universal but a personal god. With the development of personality this need became increasingly acute. The double acquired the traits of an ideal beloved—Muse, Beatrice, Laura, Sophia, the Beautiful Lady—transformations of those wooden figurines that were previously kept in a secret place. The double may be identified with a certain person, in everyday life not too close (once seen in childhood, preferably deceased), so that similarity with him does not obscure similarity with oneself. Addressing the dead is a common poetic trope of all ages, in Russian literature tracing back to “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign.” Marina Tsvetaeva writes to the deceased Rilke: Each thought, any, Syllable leads to you—whatever it may be Interpretation (let the Russian be dearer than the German To me, all angelic be dearer!). Thus all poetry, every syllable, is addressed to the (in real life scarcely known) double‑poet and only to him, and since he is in another world, the angelic language is more appropriate than any earthly one. The living are altogether excluded from possible addressees: “I am indifferent—on what incomprehensible being I may be a counterpart.” Rilke’s departure is both loss and acquisition of a double. First letter to you from yesterday, On which I wear out without you, Homeland—now already one of the stars. Just as the biblical god, having created man, arranges the earth for him, so the poetess, seeing a double on the “most undeveloped outskirts,” fills it with blocks of makeshift metaphysics. The Platonic image of the star—the chariot of the soul—comes into play. Yet the Earth is also a chariot of the soul on the earthly segment of the path. Therefore Rilke’s soul, from its chariot, sees Earth as a star still bearing a kindred soul. The use of double mirrors—mutual reflection of doubles within each other—allows one to reach a higher degree of detachment, to imagine one’s own existence as the dream of a double seen in a dream. In the midday heat in a Dagestan valley With lead in my chest I lay motionless; A deep wound still smoked... The sleeping dead dream of a beloved—now alone at the feast of life. And in a sad dream her young soul God knows with what it was immersed; And she dreamed of the Dagestan valley; A familiar corpse lay in that valley... At the same time double representation—a fully unfolded metaphor of creation with its feedback loops. For not only the creator makes a double, but the double, in the course of things, creates the creator, illuminating his soul with reflected light.

Creation Not biblical, but any god creates in his own image and likeness, that is, creates a double for himself. This is the meaning of creation. If God is a sun disk, then he creates the earth and sky in the form of disks. A god knowledgeable in Pythagorean number symbolism creates the body of the cosmos, adhering to harmonious proportions, as in Plato's "Timaeus." However, the principle of doubling is also maintained here: the transcendent ("intelligible") god creates the cosmos as a living being – a sensible god-son, striving for "all things to become as much like himself as possible."

The body of the cosmos, according to this theory, is filled with the soul of the cosmos, in which its Mind or Word resides (which are essentially the same, considering the connection between consciousness and language known even before Johann Herder). God did not succeed in creating an exact equivalent of eternity (as it belongs only to Him), but gave it a twin-time and lit the celestial bodies to measure it. The celestial bodies, in turn, served as prototypes of gods of the third order, and according to their number, human souls were created, and the completion of the creation of the latter – again, on the principle of assimilation – was entrusted to the gods.

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Soul The notion of the soul as a double goes back to the “Book of the Dead” and is constantly symbolized by pairs in which one double is mortal, the other immortal. Concerned with the loneliness of Gilgamesh, the gods create for him a friend‑double Enkidu, who “met the fate of a man,” i.e., he died and went to the underworld. Gilgamesh followed him but could not bring the friend back. One of the twin Dioscuri was also to become a victim of death, which his immortal brother opposed. The Son of Man was born of the Holy Spirit (a heavenly virgin, as imagined by the Aramaic‑speaking) through a earthly virgin and attained immortality. Heaven took care that during his earthly sojourn he would not be left without a double. Six months before the advanced age of Elizabeth, previously barren, she conceived a male infant with the help of the archangel Gabriel, who also played in her womb at the moment of Jesus’ conception and was likewise filled with the Holy Spirit. The double was intended as a forerunner—assistant clearing the way. He is identical and at the same time opposite to Jesus. He does not eat, does not drink (whereas the Son of Man likes to eat and drink). He precedes Jesus both in birth and death, paving the way to the afterlife (Herod Antipas took them for one person and did not dare to execute Jesus, believing he dealt with the risen John). Mythological symbolism presents death as the separation of doubles. Yet the relative significance of who is subject to decay and who is destined for immortality changes according to overall worldview settings. Odysseus, on his way home, visits the realm of Hades, where he is surrounded by the souls of the dead. Among them is his mother Anticlea. Odysseus vainly tries to embrace her. ... Such is the fate of all mortals, however they die: In him the tendons no longer bind flesh to bone; All is devoured by the powerful force of burning flame, Only the white bones will be left by the spirit; the soul, Having fled like a dream, flutters here and there. The soul flutters in bewilderment until the psychagogue leads it to Erebus. In appearance it resembles a mortal double in full armament of all its essential signs. Here is the soul of Heracles: ... Dark as the night, he held A drawn bow, with an arrow on a tight string, and terribly Looked around, as if ready to release it at once. Heracles, the narrator notes, among the gods “lives in happiness and has the beautiful‑ankled Hebe,” here in Erebus only his shadow. Upon it shines a band adorned with an artful pattern—the shadow of the band, which perhaps the resurrected Heracles still wears. Lucian makes the shadow of Heracles (“bow, club, lion’s skin, height—Heracles from head to toe”) meet in the realm of Hades the mocking shadow of Diogenes. The dialogue of these shadows is a parody of Neoplatonic‑early‑Christian conceptions of the soul. At first Heracles habitually (according to Homer) explains that he has not died: here in hell only his image exists. But the philosopher wants to know whether this image existed during the hero’s life. Perhaps they formed a single being and after death split—Heracles ascended to Olympus, and his image sank into the underworld. This hypothesis irritates the hero’s image, not too favorably disposed to the new sophistry. He grabs the bow, but recalling that the opponent is only a shadow, he proposes an alternative that would honor even a professional sophist: for Heracles had two fathers—earthly Amphitryon and heavenly Zeus. Thus what is from Amphitryon—in the realm of the dead, and what from Zeus—lives in heaven with the beautiful‑ankled one. The body (“third Heracles”) is consigned to fire together with the club. The fate of the bow bequeathed to Philoctetes is also known, which does not prevent Heracles (the image of Heracles) from using this bow (his image) posthumously. Triple Heracles illustrates Plato’s thought on the tripartite nature of man, whose body is an earthly chariot of the soul, temporarily replacing a stellar one; the soul of divine origin consists of two parts—immortal (the elevating demon in the head) and mortal (the degrading feelings in the chest). It is easy to see here also a hint to the Apostle Paul, who distinguished flesh, soul and spirit bodies (in ancient Chinese philosophy there is also a notion of a double soul—one dying with the body and one living as long as it is remembered). Certainly these thinkers have moved far beyond Homer in developing an essential notion of the soul, which has already begun to lose its imagery. Indeed, if the body is merely a chariot, the soul that existed long before its appearance could hardly have the same form. Aristotle, with his characteristic thoroughness, discusses the views of predecessors who identified the soul with impulse, moving force, motion (Thales, Heraclitus, Anaxagoras, Pythagoreans), with mind (Democritus, in modern times—Descartes, who placed the soul in the pineal gland), with water (Hippon; this view may be Egyptian or Mesopotamian, since inhabitants of those lands considered water the soul of the earth, and the human body is also of earth) and finally with blood (since blood to the body is what water is to the earth). The last view, attributed by Aristotle to Socrates’ student Critias, is interesting because similar ideas are found in the Bible (“for the soul of every body is its blood, it is its soul”). By blood not only genetic but also spiritual—essential—kinship was established. Moses’ wife Zipporah, casting at the god’s feet the circumcised foreskin of her firstborn, says: “You are my blood‑groom.” To become kin by souls, they drank diluted blood or replaced it with wine. The symbolic meaning of wine has been preserved in the rite of communion, binding spiritual kinship with God (not necessarily to proclaim a toast “to brotherhood” to feel the sacred sense of shared drinking; participants in this act rapidly reproduce typical double relationships ranging from fraternal love to fraternal hatred). At the same time early Christianity, with its characteristic eclecticism, incorporated the double‑soul with its characteristic attributes. After the resurrection Jesus retained the wounds from the nails and spear, and the skeptic Thomas could insert his fingers and palm into them to verify their authenticity. Double souls pass through the Middle Ages straight into Dante’s hell, where they must forever flee from enraged (soulish) dogs or carry their own head in their hands—the post‑mortem attribute of Bertrand de Born. If one believes Dante Rossetti, the pre‑Raphaelite painter could create a portrait of his own soul as a young lady dressed in a long gray‑green dress (such is her depiction in “The Hand and the Soul”). But were not painters throughout the ages engaged in the same? Who were Galatea, Mona Lisa, Beatrice, Laura, Lenore, if not projections of souls that found immortality in them? The portrait breathes passion, and to the touch it is only a rough surface. The passion of the portrait is eternal, it yields no action. Using Robert Musil’s formula (“a man without qualities”), it is “that which happened without anything happening.” In short, the ideal dwelling place of the soul. For the cave man, painting was, one may suppose, a means of capturing souls. The image was a double upon which one could cast spells to affect that which roamed free. Reproducing a totem by painting or dramatic means opened the possibility of magical influence. However, true religion differs from magic in that it excludes any feedback: only God acts upon man, but never man upon God (Abraham, however, still managed to persuade Yahweh in some way, but this is merely a relic of ancient magic). Apparently for this reason the Old Testament forbids any images—substitution of God with a man‑made double and magical tricks with it. Christianity is more democratic in this respect: church painting implies a transfer of part of the divine essence to the image, especially evident in the case of miraculous icons. Romantics revived the ancient literalist understanding of the magic of art, found in Novalis, Tiek, in the “Gothic” romances of Hoffmann and Métyurin, whose “Meltom the Wanderer” inspired Gogol’s “Portrait” and “The Portrait of Dorian Gray.” Oscar Wilde, a distant relative of Métyurin, in his last years called himself Sebastian Meltom (the first name was suggested by the arrows on his prison garb). The damage inflicted by Dorian on his own soul becomes visible thanks to the double‑portrait, which he tries to kill. Otherwise, relationships with the painted double unfold in K. Aksakov’s “Walter in Eisenberg.” Walter fears life’s trials and wants to move onto the canvas, merge with a self‑portrait. These literary examples illustrate two types of relationships between doubles that will be examined below.Conflict In a hall of mirrors one may suddenly see a person walking toward you who is strangely familiar yet completely foreign, evoking vague apprehensions of some misplaced quality. Who could this be? There is enough time between surprise and recognition to pull the trigger. At least that is what Father Brown believes in Chesterton’s detective story “The Magistrate’s Mirror”, whose hero saw his sworn enemy in his own reflection. Created in the image and likeness, the biblical Adam turned out not to be a copy of God but his mirrored double with opposite properties. The expulsion from Eden and the subsequent earthly wanderings are an example of one of the early conflicts of doubles. Similar journeys are undertaken in the inner world and far from always ending with a safe return, a reconciliation with oneself, although that is precisely their goal. After the expulsion from Eden the first man and woman began to produce doubles. And Cain’s wife gave birth. And she also bore his brother, Abel. Contrary to the tradition that considers Abel the younger, there is no indication here of the birth order of the brothers, and comparative mythology suggests they were twins. Cain kills his brother (a solution to the problem of twin co‑rule existed in real life as well), sending him on a post‑mortem journey. This plot is then repeated many times, as in mirrors. The sons of Abraham, Jacob and Esau, are mirrored twins. Jacob left his father’s house and went into exile, fearing revenge from the deceived Esau. He spent twenty years—longer than Heracles with Eurystheus—serving Laban the Aramean. Returning, he waded across a stream (the river Jabbok), and Someone fought with him. This Someone clearly tried to kill Jacob, but eventually withdrew and, as a farewell, gave him a new name—Israel, meaning “God‑fighter”. Since receiving a name was equated in antiquity with birth, the allegory becomes clear: Jacob met death, overcame it, was reborn, became a different person. Only after this could he embrace his twin brother and return home. This most developed version is notable because the isolated story of Jacob‑Israel follows the scheme of a solar journey (see above). In this case, however, he is not a whole subject but one of the doubles. The bifurcation gains functional meaning: only one half embarks on the journey and visits the afterlife. Only a struggle between brothers can reach such ferocity as in the bloody history of the Pelopids or the Theban cycle. The ancient Indian Mahabharata is also a chronicle of war between brothers, descendants of Bharata. Biblical patriarchs fathered sons by legitimate wives and by slave‑concubines, often simultaneously. One of these half‑twins, a son of a slave, was destined from birth to serve another—a natural “assistant”. Yet sometimes they swapped places. The Apostle Paul, the first to point out the symbolic nature of the story of Agarus, remarks on this: “But as the flesh‑born chased the spirit‑born, so now” (I Cor., 4, 29). A fine illustration of these words is the story of half‑twin brothers in “King Lear”. The illegitimate Edmund claims that the flesh‑born son is more vigorous: In the thieves’ embrace of natural passion He took more in both form and wild temperament, Than he who on a hardened bed In dullness conceived a sleepy slumber. The spirit‑born son is forced to flee and wander the heather‑covered wastelands until his hour of return arrives. Schiller followed the same scheme in “The Robbers”. Not as literal but more true in spirit, the story of biblical mirrored twins and half‑twins (one being the assistant of the other) is retold by the pair Don Quixote—Sancho and Doctor Faust—Mephistopheles. Their epigones Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde make clear without allegory that we are dealing with an inner conflict in the human soul. Published almost simultaneously with Stevenson’s “Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” (1886), Oscar Wilde’s “The Picture of Dorian Gray” (1891) and Gamsun’s “Hunger” (1890) show that the conflict of doubles reached a dangerous sharpness—on the brink of clinical schizophrenia. After the titanic struggles of Moor, Faust, Ivan Karamazov with his demonic twins, after the duels of Onegin, Pechorin, Pierre Bezukhov with antithetical doubles, Agarus’s sons prevailed and loomed ominous shadows over the twentieth century.

In the Old Testament, the story of the creation of the world is told twice, apparently due to the duality of the creator himself. In the first chapter of Genesis, God creates by word (and God said, "Let there be a firmament," etc.) and is completely satisfied with the results (and saw that it was very good), while in the second, he creates by the work of his hands, shaping man from the dust of the earth, planting a paradise in Eden. Even the origin of animals, which in the archaic version were probably created by Adam, who gave them names, receives a different interpretation: God brings them to Adam so that he may name them. The order of creation itself has completely changed. If the spellcaster god created man last, then the craftsman god could not, or saw no point in, creating field bushes, field grass, and other living creatures until there was a man "to till the ground." For him, the first task was the creation of a likeness in his own image and likeness. Only after doing this does he feel a surge of creative energy and begin to arrange Eden and populate it. This god, unlike his self-satisfied double from the first chapter, never feels complete satisfaction with his work, but continues to create, supplement (man with his female twin), destroy, and correct. His dissatisfaction with man relates to the sphere of conflict between twins.

If we consider these twin versions of creation as an allegory for creativity itself, then any creative process takes place on two levels – metaphysical and real. Any creative personality begins by creating a metaphysical twin, for whom everything is done. The twin acts as the ideal reader, listener, viewer, etc. God, our primal twin, is best suited for this role. Indeed, the most sublime works of human genius are addressed to God.

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However, even ancient man, distinguishing himself from the masses and acquiring individuality, needed a more intimate twin and witness, not a universal one, but a personal god. With the development of personality, this need became increasingly acute. The twin acquired the features of an ideal beloved – a Muse, a Beatrice, a Laura, a Sophia, a Donna Bella – transformations of those wooden idols that were previously kept in a secret place.

A twin can be identified with a specific person, not very close in life (seen once in childhood, preferably deceased), so that the similarity to them does not overshadow the similarity to oneself. Addressing the deceased is a common trope in poetry of all times; in Russian literature, it goes back to "The Tale of Igor's Campaign." Marina Tsvetaeva writes to the deceased Rilke:

Every thought, any, a syllable leads to you – what would be the meaning (let my Russian native be German to me, my native to all angels!).

All poetry, every syllable, thus, is addressed to (in real life, little-known) the poet-twin and only to him, and since he is in another world, an angelic language is more appropriate than any earthly one. The living are generally excluded from the possible addressees: "I don't care – on which incomprehensible person I might meet." Rilke's departure is both a loss and an acquisition of a twin.

Soul The concept of the soul as a twin goes back to the "Book of the Dead" and is constantly symbolized by pairs in which one twin is mortal and the other is immortal.

Among the Dioscuri twins, one was also supposed to fall prey to death, which his immortal brother prevented.

Heracles. Chapter 2. DOUBLES. V.A. Krasilov. Meta‑ecology. Moscow: Paleontological Institute of the Russian Academy of Sciences, 1997. 208 p. Part 4. Creation. Soul. Conflict. Union. Chapter 3. RE‑CREATION. World as will. Dissolution.

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