This peculiar combination of truth and power casts a threefold shadow over human thought. The first is the connection between linguistic practices and the practices of power, and power always exerts pressure on language, on what can be said; it promotes some words and conceals others. The second is the identification of knowledge with its possessor; we easily reverse the natural relationship and conclude that authority does not derive from knowledge but conversely, that knowledge derives from authority. And finally, the third shadow, the strangest one: the incomprehensible belief that true knowledge must be concealed, that those who possess it should not rush to reveal it but rather, on the contrary, should conceal it with all their might. And indeed, knowledge is hidden, sometimes for trivial reasons, because it provides a purely material advantage, whether military, economic or informational, and sometimes because knowledge is considered a dangerous thing that, like a nuclear button, must remain in the right hands. Both these motifs merge in the long tradition of esotericism and Hermeticism, dating back to Babylonian and Egyptian times.
If the motives for concealing knowledge could be reduced to pragmatics, as in the case of limiting access to profitable technology, the matter would be uninteresting. But humanistic and religious knowledge were also concealed. Here, too, veils were drawn, enigmatic and ambiguous language was used and meanings were encrypted in symbols. In this way, a dual effect was achieved: the belief that secret knowledge existed was reinforced while simultaneously cutting off access to it.
The origins of this movement, sometimes called Hermeticism, are linked to ancient religions. In our culture, the most important influences were those of Egyptian religion (the cult of Thoth) and the pre-Homeric religion of the Greeks (the cult of Hermes), hence Hermes Trismegistus. Traditions that did not leave clear written records became legendary, such as the Arcadian civilization referred to by ancient writers. Two ideas gave rise to the Hermetic movement in our culture. The first spoke of the existence of a connection between the worlds: gods and humans (the role of Hermes), the living and the dead (the myth of Orpheus). Hermes connects humans and worlds, but utilizing his powers required initiation – that is, placing oneself in the hands of forces more powerful than the human. In return, initiates gain the power necessary to participate in the actions of the gods rather than merely being subject to their favour and disfavour.
Initiation is difficult both ritually and psychologically. It also imposes moral demands, as a certain level of virtue and craft is a necessary condition. Exclusivity is inherent in initiation: it would be meaningless if everyone could access it free of charge. Orpheus’s ticket to the underworld, where he could challenge death itself to a duel, was his musical art. The continuing power of this image is demonstrated by the acclaimed 1995 film All the Mornings of the World, in which the protagonist seeks to bring back his dead wife through the power of his music. The hero of this half-historical, half-fantastical story is the admired 17th-century violinist Jean de Sainte-Colombe, teacher of the even more famous Marin Marais. But what remains of this story? Only the power of feeling and music. A modern Orpheus in the age of science, in the century of Descartes, Pascal, Newton and Leibniz, seems merely a metaphysical extravagance.