As I continue to read the asterisk-signed reviews for the 1845 New York "Tribune," which historians attribute to Margaret Fuller, but which I attribute to Mathew Franklin Whittier, I have run across something I want to make a note of for posterity, but which I don't know quite where to put. It doesn't belong in my book; and this blog is, perhaps, not being read by anybody at the moment. But I'm going to flag it here, anyway.
I have said that I continue to have the same higher mind that Mathew had. In this case, I find that I understood the same philosophical principle. That means that I must have understood it lifetimes ago; and in each life, I re-discover it, or, reclaim it as my own past-life inheritance.
Read the opening remarks of this review, for the Aug. 22, 1845 edition. He says that there are two ways of assessing any piece of literature (and this could go for anything at all)--to judge it against the highest standard of excellence, or to appreciate it for the beauty it expresses. Which is to say, to go by the degree of its manifestation, or, by manner in which it attempts to express something of that perfect Truth which resides latent in all. He then says that either method has its dangers; the first can become dry and exclusive, while the second can be sloppy, or degenerate into the attitude we know of, today, as "It's all good."
Then, he indicates that there can be a higher synthesis which includes both and moves beyond both. This idea, if I am not mistaken, was expressed by the philosopher Hegel as his "dialectic," but he was hardly the first. It is also found in Eastern philosophy, and my own Guru taught a variation of this idea. I based my 1981 book, "Eastern Mysticism and Psychotherapy," on this concept.
But now look at Mathew's prescient observations as regards the media. He says that in the future, it will become so easy to publish, that there will be a flood of literature such that excellent work will be all but obscured--yet, it will still be there, for the discerning.
And, writing in 1845, he was precisely right.
I wrote to yet another historian of 19th century literature this morning, and have not received a reply. Sometimes I imagine I can feel the sneering derision of some of these people I write to, as they dismiss my query letter. I write these letters, generally, on a whim, in the spirit of "casting my bread upon the waters." I don't expect a reply; and yet, it is humiliating, and it does hurt, on some level. I honestly put myself out there, and when the person doesn't answer, there are only two explanations: 1) they didn't get the e-mail, or 2) they have dismissed me as a fruitcake.
I do believe that in their life review, they will realize they passed up the opportunity of a lifetime. Had they taken me seriously, they could have had a part in presenting my work to the world. It might have cost them their jobs, or even their careers--but it would have put them on the map. And, they have passed up the chance to talk with someone who was actually there, and in the midst of the very events they have studied in books.
What do you say about lost opportunities? One will have to come back and do it right. These people, perhaps, will be my advocates in a future era.
I may have mentioned that I can now prove that Edgar Allan Poe stole "The Raven" from Mathew Franklin Whittier. Don't look for it, I haven't shared that "smoking gun" in this blog. It is in my sequel--which book I just increased to $12.00, today. Not for spite, but because I realized that it has grown, now, to such an extent that it is every bit as valuable as the first book.
I think, of all the thefts of Mathew's work, that one bothered him the most, in hindsight. He tried his best to rise above it, telling himself that fame was illusory, and that it didn't matter. But there is something he missed, in trying to force himself into philosophical acceptance. I've expressed this before, but it hit me strongly the other day. Unfortunately, it's difficult to express.
If people think that a literary phony like Poe could write something as magnificent as "The Raven," it confuses them. It dulls the sharp edge of their powers of discernment; it pollutes their intuition. The student of the Mysteries knows that good fruit comes from good trees, and bad fruit from bad. He or she knows the truth of Manifestation, that excellence is first and foremost of the heart, of the inner man, and then manifests outward--that this is the real nature of genius. Genius is inspiration. It is not a matter of clever construction. Chris Dedrick, composer and head of The Free Design, says in the music I have opening this page, "the essence of the thing remains the same." People feel that essence. But if they believe that this essence came from a person of lower spiritual development, then their very faith in the dynamic of Manifestation is shaken.
It is, in short, nothing short of spiritual toxicity to accept and believe that an inspired work came from a person of lower consciousness. Therefore, when Mathew wrote anonymously, and refused to openly defend his work, this was tantamount to enabling thieves to steal it. That, in turn, created a toxic environment, in which people were disarmed by the inspired work, which opened them up to accepting, and imbibing, the lower energy of the plagiarist's own productions. It is tantamount to disrespecting the inspired work--debasing it, if you will. People think that "The Raven" was a horror poem. Nothing could be farther from the truth, or more debasing. It was a poem about Mathew's faith crisis after his beloved Abby's death, and an expression of his love for her. It was about the hope that she might visit him from the other side; his fear of such an event; and it expressed his struggle to overcome the apparent victory of physical death, which seemed to overthrow both his faith, and his reason. It was written in the style which mirrored Mathew's own deepest energy signature; and the obsessiveness in it expressed the obsessiveness of grief and doubt.
Poe, pretending to have written it, subsequently published the most childish essay explaining his supposed technique. From the spiritual point of view, it is blatantly obvious that he couldn't possibly have written it. He didn't have the spiritual capacity, and he didn't even understand what he had stolen. Nobody with their heart awakened, with spiritual discernment, could possibly mistake him for the original author. But now we have generations of people who believe it; and in believing it, their spiritual intuition is plugged up and polluted. If they understood who really wrote it, and got to know Mathew Franklin Whittier, they would begin to see into the depths of that poem, because they would have the key that unlocks its deeper essence.
The same goes for the other works stolen from Mathew. But, I hadn't intended to make this a long entry. I suppose these things are just bothering me, and I had to let off some steam somehow.
You see, when I tell people that I was the real author of this work in a past life, their mind generates a theory--so fast that they don't even see it happen. Their theory is that I have created this in a fit of megalomania, for self-aggrandizement. But while it's not a bad theory, it's simply not correct. Unfortunately, however, being an unconscious creation, it is not open for validation or critique. This theory is mistaken because my motives are quite different. "The Raven" is my past-life child, which has been kidnapped. This has nothing (or, very little) to do with seeking personal glory. I don't care whether or not I get in the newspaper--I just want my child back. That's going to require publicity, and that's what I want the publicity for.
Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.
Music opening this page: "The Hook," by The Free Design,
from the album "Cosmic Peekaboo"