Know Thyself
Philanike: So who are you?
Euthymios: Sorry, I got a haircut. It must make me look pretty different. It’s Euthymios, your student.
Ph: That’s your name, what the Egyptians would call your rn, but that’s not who you are. Who are you?
Eu: Rn, huh? Easy for you to say. Okay, so this is one of the little interrogation things—
Ph: Elenchos.
Eu: Which must be Greek for “interrogation.” Fine. I’m a guy, uh, I work at a garage as a mechanic; I guess I’m Pagan, um …
Ph: Each of those is a label, a name, another rn. But what are you?
Eu: A human being.
Ph: Nice. To define a thing, we determine its class—its gens—and its difference from other items in that class—its differens. So what’s the gens and differens of humans?
Eu: Humans are thinking animals.
Ph: Dolphins probably do something a bit like thinking. For all we know, squirrels think. So they’re human?
Eu: Okay, then, we’re thinking animals who are—self-aware. And use language. And tools—I know, I know, some animals use tools too—and we are rational.
Ph: Quite a list, and as you point out, mostly also applicable to animals with the possible exception of using language, and for me the jury is out on that one. How will I know a human if I see one?
Eu: Featherless biped.
Ph: You’ve been reading your Plato. I often think he came up with that definition to shut people like me up.
Eu: Will it please you if I just confess that I have no clear, unambiguous answer to your question?
Ph: Truth always pleases me. So if we don’t even know what a human is, how can we pretend to know anything about divine beings?
Eu: I guess we can’t.
Ph: We just spent an awful lot of words and quite a bit of time pretending to do just that, though, and it’d be sad if we had to throw it all away because we’re essentially ignorant.
Eu: Well, maybe it has some value to think and do these things even though we are essentially ignorant.
Ph: We do have some ideas, though, that might help us. Let’s see what we think of these notions and what we can do with them, and maybe we’ll come to a clearer understanding of what it is to be human—and divine.
Plotinus, in the first section of the first tractate of the fifth Ennead, lays out two ways back to the One:
A double discipline must be applied if human beings in this pass
are to be reclaimed, and brought back to their origins, lifted
once more towards the Supreme and One and First. There
is the method, which we amply exhibit elsewhere, declaring
the dishonour of the objects which the Soul holds here in
honour; the second teaches or recalls to the soul its race
and worth; this latter is the leading truth, and, clearly
brought out, is the evidence of the other.154
Understanding matter and the things we strive for in our lives as unimportant can lead us to seek other things, but it can also lead us into despair and stagnation. So Plotinus points out that a second discipline exists, another way to get there that encompasses and surpasses the first: to help the soul remember “its race and worth.” The original Greek for this is:
Which means “remind the soul of the quality of its 
and its 
.” These two words have a range of meaning. A genos was a person’s tribe, not just their race. It came with implications of heritage, of descent, of the past. An axia, on the other hand, was value, worth, and due: it looked to the future. The soul already knows both of these: it knows where it came from and where it’s going, because the logos itself partakes of the nous. But we are reminding it—anamimneskon—because in the push and pull of guiding the chariot of the self through matter, it forgets.
So what are your genos and your axia?
As far as genos, your species, the Corpus Hermeticum takes a clear stand, in the “Dialogue of Hermes Trismegistus: Regarding the common mind, to Tat.” Here we have a dialogue, much like my little dialogues throughout this book, between Hermes and his student Tat; although unlike Euthymios, Tat doesn’t say much—he’s not terribly spirited. But the point is, Hermes begins this discourse by defining his terms, borrowing authority from a “good demon,” the agathodaimon: “For truly, the Good Daimon called the gods immortal humans; and humans, mortal gods.”155
Consider the rather startling implications of that statement, which perhaps don’t seem to startling to you. It means that our genos, our tribe, is of the gods. This is hubris, or at least looks like it; to aspire to be a god is a sort of sin in classical religion. But it’s not really hubris, because Hermes makes it clear what gives us that power: our share of the divine mind. In another startling twist, Hermes tells Tat that not everyone has the same share of mind: some people are more conscious than others. While I find this a doctrine that rankles my democratic nerves, it’s undeniably true. Not everyone takes pleasure in contemplating abstract ideas, and some people—while certainly conscious and deserving of respect and kindness and so forth—aren’t really doing much with their capacity of mind.
This mind, Hermes tells Tat, exists in all of nature, and activates all matter: it is the ratio we call “the laws of nature.” In animals, it governs their desires. In matter, it governs its activity. In humans, though, it does more: it actively pushes against our desires. It allows us to exert discipline, order, and (in the best possible sense of the word) self-denial. There is a drive for wholeness and health within our souls, and that is the ratio, the Mind described in this discourse of Hermes Trismegistus. It’s also our genos, the thing we have in common with the gods themselves.
The gods were given a gift by the One: they were given immortality. They are the athanatoi, the undying. We, on the other hand, die. But we were given two gifts which Hermes calls greater than immortality: the first is our share of the Mind, which the gods also get, and the second is the Word, which in Greek is logos, covering not only the faculty of speech but also that of reason and rationality. Hermes says that the word, which animals do not have (they have only “voices,” an important distinction), is “the likeness and mind of God.”156 Our faculty for symbolic thought allows us to see the connections between things, and thus their essential oneness.
And yet, how can we—great meaty tubes filled with feces, essentially—be divine in our essence, our species? It’s a strange thing to think of humanity, with its violence and weaknesses and hatreds, being divine. Even writing this, I keep wanting to hedge—“divine in some sense” I want to type. But it wouldn’t be true to hedge: we are divine.
Mind is like a light that shines through a stained-glass window. Are we the window or the rays of light that shine through it? Are we the hairless apes who invented war and can destroy the planet, the monsters responsible for holocaust and genocide, slavery and rape? Or are we the pure beams of Mind that shine through that window, colored by our natures but nevertheless partaking of the light? That’s the miracle and divinity of humans, because while we are bound by fate in every other particular, in this we get to choose. That’s what makes us divine: we can create and we can destroy. Our choice.
Those other material things we recognize as synthemata of the gods are also dual in nature. Take Dionysos, a powerful and holy god, savior of humankind. His synthema is wine, which can free us of inhibitions to such a degree that we may destroy ourselves. Or take Hephaestos, god of craft, whose synthema is fire: we simultaneously embrace and fight it, because it can give us life by warming us in hostile climates and making our food edible as well as take our lives by burning our flesh. Or take Zeus, god of law and the sky, one of whose synthemata are storms: they give life to the earth, absolutely, and without them we would be a parched and dead wasteland. But they can also take life. Or Poseidon, the god of the sea, whose currents hide bounties, yet sends tidal waves to destroy cities. Or Apollo, healer and poet and musician and bringer of foul plague …
Everything that we must handle with care, everything with the power to give life, also has the power to destroy and is the body of a god. Our little ape bodies, our meat toruses are synthemata of our own souls, and they too have the power to create and destroy.
Recognizing our genos is accepting responsibility. Spend a few nights of debauchery with a willing partner, fine. But know that you’re using your creative power for that, and do it in full will and without illusions. Don’t lie to yourself: you are choosing pleasure. That’s not evil, despite what the authors of the Hermetica, the good ol’ Neoplatonists, and even some of the Stoics, and the priests of Egypt—my goodness, I am outnumbered here!—argue. The Epicureans at least offer us this fillip: we can choose pleasure, as long as we know that all pleasure is equal. Sex is delightful, but it is exactly as delightful as studying Greek, playing the piano, and eating some sushi. Or would be, if you could recognize it.
So pleasure is a choice we might make, and we might also make the choice to take our pleasure at the expense of others. This isn’t always violent or criminal, mind you. We sometimes take our pleasure with lies in our heart, knowing darn well we will not call the next day, no matter what. That’s a choice we can make, and it can be a destructive one.
The point is, knowing that we are mortal gods is knowing that we have the power to destroy ourselves as well as the power to create. And that power is up to us, and what we create is our choice. And that creation is our axia, our value, the second thing that Plotinus tells us we need to remember.
I’ve said before that the purpose of life is to join the gods in the great work of creation. What we create becomes the action of our soul and an extension of our body. Our works are our children. Like children, they reflect their origin and carry it forward into the world. The question is, what is worthy of creation?
There’s a concept in Thelema, the religion started by Aleister Crowley, of the true will. The true will is that which you were “put on earth to do,” but that makes it sound rather cheesy. Really, it’s that thing for which you are best suited, that problem that will most readily yield to your hand. It might be to be an engineer, as the hero in his Diary of a Drug Fiend turns out to be, or it might be to fly airplanes, learn to cook delicious five-course meals, or become a dominatrix. There’s no way of telling what your true will is until you begin the work of magic, he suggests, although people do naturally enough stumble into it. When you set your hand to your true will, the path becomes clear—but of course what that really means is that you have little problem climbing over the rocks. When you do something hard and enjoy it because it is hard, that’s probably part of your true will.
We can trace this idea backward in time, finding an unlikely kindred soul in Gerard Manley Hopkins, the late nineteenth-century British poet. Hopkins probably would not have thought well of a man who called himself “the Great Beast,” nor would Crowley have liked Hopkins, an Anglican priest. But Hopkins writes, in his poem “As Kingfishers Catch Fire, Dragonflies Draw Flame,” these lines:
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.157
Everything, Hopkins suggests, is constantly telling us its name, and that name is what it does. What we do is our name, our true name. This name is our true will, the reason we came. And that is our axia, our worth or value.
But the important thing to keep in mind is that we cannot judge another person’s true will. They may have a true will that we regard as suspect, immoral, or unusual. But there are two features of a true will, an axia, that we can rely on to judge our own. First, every true will is good. There is no true will that will step on another’s true will, because we are all manifestations of the One and therefore all enacting the same will. While we might experience a fragmented soul, the One is not fragmented by definition, and as multifarious as the universe seems to us, it is unified. Second, and a corollary of the first principle, a true will is creative and active. It is not destructive. It is not watching TV and eating chips on the couch.158 Sure, we can choose that pleasure from time to time as a way to recharge and relax, but when we’re doing that we’re not chasing our value. Just as the One is unified and cannot therefore will anything contrary to its own will, so is it active and creative.
As we act and create, knowing we are synthemata of the gods and divine in essence ourselves, we don’t act separate from the world. On the contrary, we are part of the system of the world, and the wise theurgist will understand this. In popular culture, this understanding has manifested as environmentalism, which unfortunately has sometimes become glib and unthinking. Some of the things people do in the name of environmentalism are actually harming the earth. What a lot of naive environmentalist advocates—not all or even most of them, by any means—fail to recognize is that we will have an effect on the environment. We are forces. We will do something to the world, and we cannot pass through it like insubstantial phantasms. That is not a reason to give up and stop caring about environmentalism. On the contrary, rather than trying to avoid making an impact or surrendering and letting humanity lay waste to the earth, we need to understand how we can affect it positively.
As fond as Pagans are of such causes, the physical environment is not the whole point. We are part of the web of existence in other ways, too, that are less subtle and physical. The chain of cause and effect is really a web, a complex interconnection of symbols and significations. We have a unique place, as far as we know, in that web. We’re the brightest light of mind in the universe (that we’ve seen so far), and the most capable of manipulating symbols and understanding how they relate. This makes us capable of art, religion, science, and magic: the four ways of knowing that Ramsey Dukes lays out in his extremely important S.S.O.T.B.M.E.159 Each of these is a way of understanding symbols and manipulating them. And we can bend any one of them in service of another, because they have symbols in common.
Theurgy is the use of magic to accomplish the aims of religion. Instead of dogma, we have praxis. We bring to bear the entire toolbox of magic: talismans, tools, offerings, and so on. To it, we add the toolbox of religion: prayer, devotion, contemplation. We end up, then, with a combination that can send us upward at great speed if we’re willing to make the trip. Similar combinations can be made in other ways: the symbolic methods of religion can bend to service the aims of magic, and the symbols of religion to serve the aims of art (Beethoven springs to mind). The symbols of religion can serve science, even if they seem to be at odds right now—think of the medieval Muslims, who preserved a lot of scientific knowledge in the name of a religious reverence for learning.
I’ve written elsewhere that I’m suspicious that science can ever prove magic; I still believe that’s a wrong tree to be barking up, because science doesn’t have the tools to investigate magic any more than it has the tools to investigate religion. However, it can inform magic just as it can inform religion and vice versa, no doubt. Magic may have things to teach science if we could have a dialogue. As a magician and a theurgist and a sometimes scientist, I rather doubt that’ll ever be possible. But let’s hope.
The point is, all of these ways of knowing and moving symbols are unified in that they deal with symbols and with ideas that dwell within the Nous. We are nexuses of symbols, spanning all the worlds of nous and psyche and hyle. With our feet in matter and our heads in the mind of god, we’re kind of remarkable creatures … as long as we don’t forget too long and destroy the world in the meantime.
So that’s our “race and worth,” but now I want to turn my attention to a secondary, but important question that we need to deal with if we’re going to be effective theurgists, and that is this: Are you crazy?
Efstathios Kollas, a Greek Orthodox priest, referred to reconstructionists of the ancient religion as following “monstrous, dark delusions.”160 I’m not a reconstructionist, but I’m pretty sure that he wouldn’t make the distinction between me with my wildly eclectic attitude toward the divine and your typical Greek reconstructionist. On the contrary, I imagine he’d find a nice broad brush to paint us with, and he’d paint us both with the color of crazy.
Now, notice that he didn’t just call them “doomed” or “sinners,” which would have been an earlier age’s reaction to such a heresy. There is of course a religious element to his “delusion,” in that to be deluded is to be influenced by Satan against the truth, but the term also invokes the stigma of mental illness. To deny what he regards as the truth is to be deluded. He’s not the only one who thinks that way. Richard Dawkins wrote a book called The God Delusion, which is intelligent, brilliantly and entertainingly written, and so filled with logical fallacies that you could use it as a rhetoric 101 textbook.161 Right now I don’t want to address the fallacies but instead his choice of words, which strike me as more interesting. What about a religious experience is a delusion?
A delusion is, unless my faint memories of my abnormal psychology classes in college escape me, a persistent and false belief about the world that does not yield to evidence to the contrary. At first blush, that looks a lot like faith, doesn’t it? Perhaps these two men, on opposite sides of a chasm of their own digging, are shouting at the same echo. Pardon my convoluted metaphor, but I’m struck by the similarities in their rhetoric here: a religious man and a determined, vocal atheist are both using a similar metaphor to describe believers. The religious use of the word “delusion” differs from the scientific meaning, but both uses share the same underlying preconception: any deviation from a particular view of reality isn’t just a disagreement or even a mistake—it is a delusion.
A delusion isn’t a mental illness in itself, but it’s the symptom of mental illness; if found in a constellation with other symptoms, it could be a sign of sickness. And I’ve run into people (mostly on the Internet but sometimes in person) whom I suspect might benefit from a good psychologist and a script for some chlorpromazine. I could tell some stories, as could anyone else who has spent any time around occultists, but that’s not the point. The point is: What’s the difference between a person who thinks they are the reincarnation of a fictional character who is telling them scary things about the enemies out to get them, and a guy who prays to Hermes and then goes for a walk in hopes of a kledon? A lot of people, among them the Efstathios Kollas and Richard Dawkins, would probably say “no difference at all.”
Obviously, I’d like there to be a difference. That difference could be studying ancient languages, researching in scholarly sources rather than on TV, dressing in jackets with leather patches on the elbows … but it might as well be in what we had for lunch for all the real meaning those things have. One answer is to say “who cares?” and let people think you’re nuts. Ultimately that’s where we end up, and we all know it. We either accept ourselves, quirks and minority ontologies and peculiar “hobbies” and all, or we loathe ourselves, and this is a path that does not line up well with self-loathing.
I would contend that that is the key to the answer to the question, “Are you nuts?” A person dedicated to the power of reason, as a theurgist must be, has to answer: Maybe, but there are crazy people who cannot function and need help, and there are those that are on the fringes who become stronger and better and happier because of their so-called “delusions.” There’s an important concept in the classical world, one that every single Wiccan perpetually espouses whether he or she knows it or not. It’s a Greek word of five letters (well, six, actually, but one is a diphthong which is treated as a single letter): ὑγίεια. Rendered as hygieia in the Latin alphabet, this word means “health” or “wholeness,” and the Pythagoreans took it as their watchword and greeting. They placed its letters around the pentagram, and regarded the five-pointed star as the symbol of health.
One of the reasons Pythagoreans placed the word “hygieia” around the pentagram was that the pentagram represents several geometrical harmonies. We can find the golden section in it as well as other interesting interlocking relationships. It is like a chord played perfectly in tune in visual form, and thus a perfect metaphor for the kind of spiritual health the word “hygieia” describes.
As we struggle up the path, we have to keep our balance. We do this by checking it periodically, and measuring ourselves not against the standards of others—after all, who knows how sane those folks are behind locked doors?—but against the standard of balance. The question we must ask ourselves is simple, actually, and quite direct:
Am I a happier, more open, and more effective person? Or am I closed off, ineffectual, hobbled? If you cannot function as a person in society, it’s not a sign of spiritual advancement; it’s a sign of illness. Marcus Aurelius appeals to the social nature of humans to know whether what we are doing is right or wrong: “Neither can I be angry with my brother or fall foul of him; for he and I were born to work together, like a man’s two hands, feet, or eyelids, or like the upper and lower rows of his teeth.”162 Indeed, without social interaction, we cannot know who we are. That doesn’t mean we can’t be shy, introverted, or withdrawn—but if we cannot even deal with people or use our religion as an excuse to avoid others, that’s a sign that we are not well. I contend that healthy spirituality opens one up, banishes fear, and frees us of shackles. A successful theurgist should be a very effective person both in his or her mundane life and in his or her spiritual life, because of the spiritual harmony arising from true hygieia.
It’s ironic, perhaps, that people trot out terminology from psychology to dismiss minority religions. After all, what is psychology originally but “the study of the soul”? And who knows the soul better than the theurgist, who has reminded his or her soul of its origin and worth? Actually, the science of psychology does have teachings that are useful for us, among them the definition of mental illness. Merely being odd or strange isn’t a mental illness. By definition, a mental illness makes your life harder. Does believing in the gods make it harder or easier to have a successful life? I contend that it makes it easier for very many people, even granted that some might use it as a way to hide from life. The majority of people who believe in gods—including gods like Jesus Christ—believe in them because they make life better.
But some do use magic as a crutch or, worse, a hobble. They bind their feet with magic or at least with its appearance. Examples are not hard to find, but one public example will serve for all the rest, and that’s the example of something that happened to the fantasy author Mercedes Lackey, who has published an open letter on her webpage concerning a series of books that she wrote about an occult detective called Diana Tregarde. I can’t speak knowledgeably about these books, but apparently there are a group of
people who think the novels are real. They have built conspiracy theories about the books and threatened the author who—by all accounts, though I haven’t met her—is a very nice person.
Is it because these people believe in magic that they went nuts? Not at all. Any religion can succumb to insanity or no religion at all, and we can convince ourselves of any number of harmful delusions. Lackey’s even a bit sympathetic, writing, “When your life is in the crapper, you can’t get a job that doesn’t involve a paper hat and a nametag, and you think that if you dropped off the planet no one would miss you for weeks, it’s comforting to believe that all your misfortunes can be blamed on an Evil Occult Force.”163 And if you scratch even the most curmudgeonly of occultists, you’ll find that we’ve probably got some ridiculous and embarrassing moments in our pasts. In fact, if you question a mature Christian, a mature Jew, a mature Buddhist, a mature atheist, you might well find that they have beliefs or attitudes or actions in the past they’re no longer proud of. That’s growth.
And magic, especially theurgy, is about growth. It’s about growing up, even if we’re already grownups. I can’t promise you a “job that doesn’t involve a paper hat” or an easy life. Magic may help with such things, especially if you’re good at it and can unify your will. But it may not. Sometimes magic doesn’t work. Sometimes we fail. Even the gods are subject to necessity. What I can promise you if you pursue theurgy and philosophy is that you will achieve, perhaps not all the time, but at least from time to time, what the Greek philosophers call ho agathos bios, the good life.
In English, the phrase “the good life” implies a life of material success: drinking champagne, eating caviar, and sailing about on a yacht named after your mistress or poolboy. But to the philosophers of ancient Greece, a good life was a life of contemplation. They saw that the pleasure of challenge, devotion, and contemplation of the One had advantages over the pleasures of material things. Material things decay, fail, and betray us—it’s necessity. But the forms we contemplate and the gods we make offering to are athanatoi, undying. They are worthy of our attention not because we’re commanded to attend to them. I think the fact that they haven’t destroyed the world in the last one thousand years is evidence that they’re really not starving for worshipers. No, they’re worthy of our attention because it is pleasant to attend to them and it helps us grow.
If your religion or magical practice does not help you grow into your idea of a better person, then you need to reassess the decisions you have made about it. There are a group of people who picket funerals of soldiers because they believe it’s part of their religion to protest homosexuality (the connection between military funerals and homosexuality escapes me, but so it goes). Look at the damage their religion has done to them: they have chosen a stunted, vicious, stupid god to worship, and they bask masochistically in the loathing of most of the general population. There must be pleasure there too, but I have to think that my pleasure is greater than theirs since I can love even those who disagree with me, learn from those who believe differently from me, and find an occasion for learning and growth in every experience.
Devout Muslims pray five times a day to Mecca, turning in the direction that they call the qiblah, the direction Mecca lies in from their current location. Jason Louv writes in one of his stirring essays on magic, “Love is the qiblah of evolution and of divinity.”164 Even though he is a contemporary writer and not one of those long-dead philosophers I’m so fond of, I can’t think of a better motto for the theurgist: Love is our qiblah. After all, among some mystery religions, Eros was the first god, and it was he who drew together the universe in mutual affection.
Sometimes people make the claim that ancient religions offered no personal connection to their deities, because the concept of “divine love” is lacking. This is erroneous. When Aristotle writes “it would be strange if one were to say that he loved Zeus,” he does not mean that one cannot love God.165 He is talking about reciprocation. It’s not absurd to say that Zeus loves us, but it might be a bit strange to say that we love him back. Love is an action: what action can we take to help Zeus become healthier, better, happier? He is maximally happy; he’s a god. When we make him offerings, which we do out of love and charis (grace), we do not do it to improve his lot. It’s not Zeus we love: it’s the Good in ourselves. By loving the gods, we learn to love that part of us that is divine, which is Plotinus’ ultimate point: we can become well, healthy, and complete when we understand that we are divine and therefore worthy of pure love. And that means taking care of ourselves and aiming to make ourselves healthier, better, happier.
So that’s how I’ll end the book. Love is the highest god. When we raise our hands in prayer, we raise them to love. Our offerings are always offerings of love. And being One, love of one part of the universe is love of the whole. We may be single and like it that way. We may have no family to speak of or few friends—but love of anything is love of everything. Love of a garden, of a table of irregular verbs, of the soft blue color of fresh morning snow, of ourselves, it’s all love of the entire universe in its perfect unity. Getting there, that’s the work of henosis. It’s the whisper that tells us there’s something outside of our cave. There’s a light out there, and what we love so much are just shadows of something so much more lovable. That’s the theurgy, the work of the gods: to love.
154 Stephen MacKenna and B. S. Page, trans. The Six Enneads by Plotinus. (London: P. L. Warner, 1930) Accessed from http://www.sacred-texts.com/cla/plotenn/enn416.htm
155 Corpus Hermeticum XII:1, my translation.
156 Corpus Hermeticum XII:14. My translation.
157 Gerard Manley Hopkins. “As Kingfishers Catch Fire, Dragonflies Draw Flame” Accessed 16 May 2013, http://www.bartleby.com/122/13.html
158 Then again, that could be a creative act of its own, if done in concert with one’s true will. It’s very hard to judge.
159 Ramsey Dukes. S.S.O.T.B.M.E.: An Essay on Magic. (Netherlands: The Mouse that Spins, 2001). (Seriously, you must read it. If you have read it and didn’t think it was that important, you probably should read it again.)
160 Malcolm Brabant. “Ancient Greek Gods’ New Believers.” BBC-News. 21 January 2007. Accessed 15 May 2013, http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/6285397.stm
161 Richard Dawkins. The God Delusion. (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 2008).
162 Marcus Aurelius. Meditations. Trans. Maxwell Staniforth. (New York: Penguin, 2005), 11.
163 Mercedes Lackey. “The Last Straw.” The World of Mercedes Lackey. Accessed 15 May 2013, http://www.mercedeslackey.com/features_laststraw.html
164 Jason Louv. “Spooky Tricks” in Generation Hex, ed. Jason Louv. (New York: Disinformation, 2006), 116.
165 W. D. Ross, trans. Aristotle: Magna Moralia. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1915). Accessed 16 May 2013. http://archive.org/stream/magnamoralia00arisuoft/magnamoralia00arisuoft_djvu.txt