THE POETIC WORLD OF CARMEN CONDE

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Authors Cabello, Susan Uihlein, 1941-

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University Microfilms International 300_North Zeeb Road Ann Arbor, Michigan 48106 USA St. John's Road, Tyler's Green High Wycombe, Bucks, England HP10 8HR 7815795

CABELLO, SUSAN UXHLESN THE POETIC WORLD OF CARMEN CONDE, THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA* PH.D., 1970

University Microfilms International 300 n. zeeb road, ann arbor, mi 48106

© 1978

SUSAN UIHLEIN CABELLO

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED THE POETIC WORLD OF CARMEN CONDE

by

Susan Uihlein Cabello

A Dissertation Submitted to the Faculty of the DEPARTMENT OF ROMANCE LANGUAGES In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements For the Degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY WITH A MAJOR IN SPANISH In the Graduate College

THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

19 7 8

Copyright 1978 Susan Uihlein Cabello THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

GRADUATE COLLEGE

I hereby recommend that this dissertation prepared under my direction by Susan Uihlen Cabello entitled The Poetic World of Carmen Conde

be accepted as fulfilling the dissertation requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

y? f//9 / it Dissertation Director Date

As members of the Final Examination Committee, we certify that we have read this dissertation and agree that it may be presented for final defense.

//

f*/ rir

Final approval and acceptance of this dissertation is contingent on the candidate's adequate performance and defense thereof at the final oral examination. STATEMENT BY AUTHOR

This dissertation has been submitted in partial fulfillment of requirements for an advanced degree at The University of Arizona and is deposited in the University Library to be made available to borrowers under rules of the Library.

Brief quotations from this dissertation are allowable without special permission, provided that accurate acknowledgment of source is made. Requests for permission for extended quotation from or reproduction of this manuscript in whole or in part may be granted by the copyright holder. For Tony

iii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I should like to thank my dissertation director, Professor Rupert C. Allen, for his guidance and timely

editorial comments throughout the preparation of this study. I am indebted to Professors Renato I. Rosaldo and Eliana S. Rivero for reading the manuscript and sharing their suggestions with me. Special acknowledgment is due Professor Jos§ A. Balseiro, who first introduced me to the poet, and to Carmen Conde herself, who has patiently answered the many questions I have directed to her through years of correspondence. I am indebted to George H. Engeman, Jr., for making available to me a copy of his unpublished doctoral dissertation as well as the entirety of his interview notes and correspondence with the poet.

Without his generosity all of these materials would have been inaccessible to me. I wish to thank Dr. Caroline Locher and my husband, Tony, for the many hours they have devoted to proofreading the manuscript. To my parents who provided financial support through the lean years as well as unfailing moral support I wish to express my gratitude. Finally I should like to thank Tony, Donie, and Ann for their patience, understanding, and sacrifices through the many years this work has been in progress.

±V TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page ABSTRACT vi

CHAPTER

PART I: THE POET AND HER WORLD 1

1. THE POET AND ARCHETYPAL CRITICISM 2 Archetypal Criticism 10 2. THE FRUITFUL EARTH 16 3. FATE 4 8

4. THE ARCHANGEL AND THE POETIC PROCESS 69 PART II: WOMAN'S DILEMMA 109

5. THE FALL: MUJER SIN EDEN 110 PART III: ANOTHER DIMENSION 159 6. ECSTASY 160

7. THE WORLD AXIS: IFACH 180 8. THE NUMINOUS EXPERIENCE OF THE ESCORIAL , . . . 2 06 9. THE GOD WITHIN 270 10. CONCLUSION 338

REFERENCES 348

V ABSTRACT

The poetic world of Carmen Conde rests upon the

archetype of the Eternal Feminine. The first part of this study examines the nature of the poetic world seeking to define the feminine poetic consciousness. A predominance of organic symbols is noted as well as the prevalence of a

variety of forms of water symbolism. Those poems concerned with the problem of self-definition are the object of special focus. A second emphasis is on the manner in which the poet defines fate, this view contributing to the way she sees herself in relation to her creation. Finally those poems dealing specifically with the poetic process are analyzed.

Part II deals with the poet's perception of the way the feminine principle functions in relation to the

masculine. The major work examined in this section is Mujer sin Ed£n, an epic treatment of how woman through the ages has viewed the Doctrine of Original Sin. Woman critically analyzes the cultural role ascribed to her in the tale of the Fall. In the Eden story the poet deals with the devaluation of the feminine, the mythification of

a spiritual problem relevant to all Western women. The devaluation of the feminine is concomitant with a culture in which the values of Eros are split off from those of

vi vii

Logos, in which instinct is separated from intelligence, to the disadvantage of both.

The third section of this study examines the manner in which the poet transcends the duality of Western Civilization. Ecstasy, the ineffable perception of the unity of life, erases the notion of sidereal time and the cosmos as space divided. In the poetry of Carmen Conde three archetypes, the world axis, the vessel, and the inner light, all function in relation to the ecstatic experience attesting to the prevalence of this motif. The Pen6n de Ifach is a form of the cosmic mountain symbolically ascended by the ecstatic poet. This spiritual ascension culminates in a new form of consciousness. The monastery of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, to which the poet withdraws in search of inner peace after the Spanish Civil War, is the alchemist's retort in which separate psychic entities are melted down and fused into a new being. At San Lorenzo de

El Escorial the poet experiences another form of ecstasy, the hieros gamos or sacred marriage of the masculine and feminine principles. The presence of the inner light, the archetype dominating another series of poems, indicates the poet's awareness of the numen within the human psyche. It is our conclusion, therefore, that ecstasy as a technique of healing is the single most important motif in the poetry of Carmen Conde, PART I

THE POET AND HER WORLD

1 CHAPTER 1

THE POET AND ARCHETYPAL CRITICISM

Carmen Conde Abell&n, first voice among the women poets of Spain, was born in Cartagena, Murcia on August 15, 1907. Her childhood was spent both in Cartagena and in

Melilla, Spanish Morocco, where her family resided for six years, returning to Spain when she was twelve years old.

Her father was a jeweler, a craftsman in both gold and silver. Observing him at work doubtless led her to ponder the mysterious transformations undergone by precious metals in the hands of the skilled artisan, for the mystery of this transformation is elaborated later in her poetry, particu­ larly in "Padre: Evocaci6n" CConde, 1967, 694). The first books she read, lent to her by friends of the family, were Rafael by Lamartine, The dama de las camelias by Dumas,

Las mil y una noches, and finally, the Bible, in the version of Cipriano de Valera put out by the New York Bible Society, which she purchased herself. This initial phase of her literary formation occurred in secret beneath her bed, where accompanied by her dog Sultana, she was able to read as she pleased without parental censorship of her activities.

Carmen Conde's formal education came to an end before she was fourteen years old, but the poet's

2 3 self-education has continued without interruption for many years. At sixteen she obtained a secretarial job in

Cartagena. At that time she was already publishing short stories in the newspapers of Spain and Argentina. At the age of 2 0 she met the poet Antonio Oliver BelmSs, to whom she would be married in 1931. The influence of Oliver Belm&s on her early poetry has been studied by Engeman

(1962, 27-34). More important than Oliver Belm&s, however, was the influence of Juan Ram6n Jimenez to whom she sent some of her early poems. He replied to her as follows:

Me ha sido Ud, sumamente simpStica por sus cartas y poemas ,.. Es verdad que yo no escribo casi a nadie, porque, en general me parecen intitiles las cartas. <£Qu§ ha hecho Ud, para que yo mire hacia Cartagena, sonriendo, en esta hermosa manana de julio Cde 1927)? (quoted in Engeman, 1962, 22).

It was Juan Ram6n Jimenez who helped more than any other to launch Carmen Conde on her literary career, publishing some of her early poems in Ley and taking an active interest in her progress (Engeman, 1962, 22). Not a few critics have commented upon her tremendous fecundity as a writer. Joaquin de Entrambasaguas, for example, finds that in terms of her creative capacities the only Spanish writer to whom she can justifiably be compared is Lope de Vega. "Serla capaz de crear por si misma todo el mundo intelectual, si se perdiera, y aGn mlis de lo existente, si le dieran tiempo para desarrollar sus fuerzas mentales" (quoted in Engeman, 1966, 18). Obra po§tica: 4 1929-1966 includes twenty-three books of poems written within that period, some of them previously unpublished."'" In addition, Carmen Conde has published novels, short stories, biography, essays on literary figures, as well as theatrical pieces and stories for children. Of her love for this last genre she comments, "... me apasiona escribir para la infancia ..., aunque lo mSs probable es que me refiera a la remota infancia de los adultos" (Conde, 1967,

248). Finally, a tremendous debt is owed her by her sister poets of Spain and Spanish America for she has consistently labored to insure that they receive recognition. Three excellent anthologies have enriched the field of con­ temporary poetry with contributions by some seventy women poets.. 2

Of the numerous books of poetry collected in Obra 3 po§tica, Carmen Conde singles out two for being of

1. Since Obra poetica the author has published: A este lado de la eternidad (Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 1970); Cancionero de la enamorada (Avila: Imprenta de "El Diario de Avila," 1971); Corrosi6n (Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 1975); Cita con la vida (Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 1976); Dlas por la tierra (Madrid: Editora Nacional, 1977). She writes that she has as well two other unpublished books of poems, one long poem, and two novels (Conde, letter of 7-31-77).

2. Once grandes poetisas americohispanas (Madrid: Ediciones cultura hispHnica, 1967) ; Poesia femenina Espanola (1939-1950) (Barcelona: Editorial Bruguera, S.A., 1967); Poesia femenina Espanola (1950-1960) (Barcelona: Editorial Bruguera, S.A., 1971),

3. The reader wishing a detailed description of the content of each of these books is referred to the preliminary study published in Obra poetica by Emilio Mir6f "La poesia de Carmen Conde," 5 particular significance to her ovm career and to the careers

of other women poets in Spain. "Sin pecar de vanidad—Icosa

pueril!—puedo asegurarle que la apariciSn de mis libros

(despu^s de la guerra), Ansia de la gracia y Mujer sin Ed§n abrieron las puertas a la poesla de la mujer en Espana"

(Conde, letter of 8-2-72). As examples of the esteem in which Carmen Conde is held, we shall examine a few of the critical opinions of these two books.

Dcimaso Alonso writes of Ansia de la gracia (1945) that it made Carmen Conde, "la primera entre las muchas y valiosas poetisas de la Espana actual" (Alonso, 1965, 339).

The focus of his article is an analysis of the creative

passion of the author. It is this emotion which gives internal unity to the entire work. What inspires erotic poems of love in the first part of the book, "Amor," becomes

in "Destino," the second, "... un frenesl, un terrible amor, antes a un hombre, ahora a todo" (Alonso, 1965, 341). Thus, although the poems included were written over a period of twelve years, from 19.3 0 to 1942, Dcimaso Alonso considers that they represent a unified work. "Pocas obras, sin embargo, mSs ligadas en su desarrollo interno, mSs

personales que esta" (Alonso, 1965, 340), Mujer sin Ed6n (1947), the second book which has brought Carmen Conde lasting fame, retells the tale of the fall from the feminine point of view. Valbuena Prat

C19.64, III, 760) does not recall "otro poema de mujer, 6 sobre la mujer eterna, tan esencial, tan impresionante, tan

bella y variadamente logrado en su unidad." Concha Zardoya considers Mujer sin Ed£n to be the spiritual biography of

Woman, a unique portrayal of woman's tragedy written by a woman for women.

Es un libro de la Mujer: es su libro. Los hombres, seguramente, han de sentirse ante el como contempiadores de la tragedia femenina. Las mujeres, por el contrario, han de sentirse vivas en este libro, expresadas en cuerpo y alma, desde su remoto origen hasta el propio ser individual. Los hombres, en realidad, no pueden comprender, y menos sentir, este libro como las mujeres, porque no son carne, sangre ni esplritu de el, materia misma de sus cinco Cantos. La mujer es aqui sustancia po^tica, no exterior inspiraci6n: no es motivo en torno al cual gira el libro, sino el libro mismo, su mSs £ntima esencia, su raz6n de ser (Zardoya, 1961, 637).

These few opinions will suffice to give a general impression of the esteem in which Carmen Conde is held as a poet.

While the Spanish press has carried numerous reviews of her many books at the moment of publication, to date no study has examined her poetry in its entirety. The unpublished doctoral dissertation of Engeman (1962)f "Carmen Conde: Vida y obra de la mujer poeta" comes closer to that goal than any other. Unfortunately the most recent book of poems dealt with by Engeman is En un mundo de fugitivos CI960). Although the analysis of the poetry is somewhat superficial, this work contains a vast quantity of useful, material about the life of the author, and, since the 7 manuscript in its entirety was corrected by Carmen Conde

herself, one can safely assume that the information con­ tained regarding dates of composition and publication is correct.

Engeman divides Carmen Conde's work into two major periods falling before and after the Spanish Civil War. The poetry of her youth is poes'ia pura, concerned with the exultation of love and the joy of life. It is a poetry of fantasy little concerned with everyday reality. The post­

war poems belong to a period which Engeman characterizes as

that of "sentimiento pensado" (Engeman, 19.62, 85). After the suffering she witnessed during the Civil War, she became more interested in the concerns of other people. Carmen

Conde herself has commented upon this change in orientation.

Yo, al principio de mi dedicaci6n literaria, anduve entregada a las imSgenes, a las hermosas palabras plSsticas, y el fondo se me antojaba menos importante que la forma; porque yo no habia vivido mSs que en mi imaginaci6n y la realidad era siempre para los vecinos. Despu§s ... ha sido otra cosa: el dolor mio y el dolor de los demcis era el mismo dolor. Di de bruces, como en un agua que tenia que darme a mi misma, en la humanidad doliente y gozante (quoted in L6pez Gorjg, 1966, 50).

In a subsequent article, Engeman explores in greater depth the turning point, those years, 1939-4 0, spent by Carmen Conde in seclusion at San Lorenzo de El Escorial, and recorded in the essays of Mi libro de El Escorial, Although she did not find peace through her meditation there, she did acquire a sense of dedication to her literary career. Like 8 Damaso Alonso, Engeman (1966, 19) attributes her tremendous literary output to her pasi6n, which is "self-regenerative, and not self-destructive, as one critic has suggested. Her work is an end in itself; her mission is not instruction, nor is it reformation, but a creation as primal as Genesis."

Diana Ramirez de Arellano studies the poetry of four contemporary women poets: Alfonsa de la Torre, Carmen Conde,

Josefina Romo Arregui, and Julia de Burgos, chosen because they represent "la vanguardia de las nuevas t^cnicas y de la nueva voz con eco suficiente para propagar su mensaje de luz estremecida hacia los confines de la poesia lirica universal" (Ramirez de Arellano, 1961, 15). The chapters on Carmen Conde represent a stylistic analysis of three books: En la tierra de nadie, En un mundo de fugitivos, and Derribado arcllngel. Carmen Conde's style, she finds, leaves much to be desired, "Carmen Conde no sobresale por su refinamiento; no labra el verso; no escoge. No exhibe su obra un virtuosismo tecnico, como por ejemplo la obra de Alfonsa de la Torre" (Ramirez de Arellano, 1961, 135),

Concha Zardoya, on the other hand, finds that the style of Mujer sin Ed§n is admirably suited to the subject matter.

Y la palabra de estos versos es viva, pura, exacta, Ni un adorno. Ni un adorno, ni una concesi6n al afeite lirico. Palabra calcinada en su pureza y castidad, palabra que duele; palabra integra, virtual, esencial. jQu§ lejos, desde este libro, la forma por la forma, la lirica divagacion! Nada sobra aqui: la palabra sirve al verso y el verso a la idea, en plena 9 desnudaz. El verso es alma y carne: nada mSs (Zardoya, 1961, 638).

While Concha Zardoya might agree that Carmen Conde's poetry is not polished, she nevertheless finds the form admirably suited to the content. One suspects that Ramirez de Arellano's objections would fall into the category of those made by DSmaso Alonso's hypothetical "schoolmaster."

jOh, si, el d6mine, a la luz de las preceptivas (despu^s de todo, un orden basado en larguisimas experiencias) , podrla aqul y allci objetar! Pero el manantial es tan puro, de tanta calidad, tan abundante ... J A artistas tan autSnticos como Carmen Conde hay que aceptarlos plenamente: eso es todo (Alonso, 1965, 343).

The previous contributions to a critical evaluation of the work of Carmen Conde can be summarized in the follow­ ing manner. For Dcimaso Alonso the passion of Carmen Conde gives to her work an inherent sense of unity, Zardoya

(.1961, 637) sees in Mujer sin Ed§n the work which best express "la tragedia de la mujer c6smica." George H.

Engeman, Jr., studies Carmen Conde's work in relation to her life, emphasizing the tremendous impact which the Civil War had upon her poetic sensitivity, causing her thereafter to seek new themes and new modes of expression. Diana Ramirez de Arellano analyzes Carmen Conde's work from a stylistic point of view. While this critic finds much about Carmen Conde's poetry which displeases her personally, we must remember th^t Carmen Conde was selected for the study because the critic felt that she was representative of the 10- new voice of women poets in Spain, "si es que hay poesla

femenina ..." (Ramirez de Arellano, 1961, 15). Thus, even

for Diana Ramirez de Arellano we can assume that Carmen Conde represents a literary figure of the first order. The present study, The Poetic World of Carmen Conde,

proposes to examine in the works of Carmen Conde the nature

of the feminine poetic consciousness. Toward this end we

have undertaken a symbological analysis of her Obra po§tica,

and we have utilized where appropriate essays by the poet on the nature of the poetic process. Since the appearance of her Obra po^tica, Carmen Conde has published four new books of poems. For Carmen Conde writing poetry is a way of life.

Archetypal Criticism

Jung (1966a, 86) has noted that "psychology can appropriately be brought to bear on the study of literature, for the human psyche is the womb of all the arts and sciences." The psyche, womb of poetic creation, comprehends the functions of both consciousness and the unconscious.

Jung divides the unconscious into two psychic zones which he terms the personal unconscious and the collective un­ conscious. The personal unconscious, which corresponds roughly to the Freudian subconscious, is that part of the psyche in which reside feeling-toned complexes or the personal aspects of psychic life. Of a vaster and more 11 universal nature is the collective unconscious:

I have chosen the term "collective" because this part of the unconscious is not individual but universal; in contrast to the personal psyche, it has contents and modes of behavior that are more or less the same everywhere and in all individuals. It is, in other words, identical in all men and thus constitutes common psychic substrate of a suprapersonal nature (Jung, 19 68b, 3).

The contents of the collective unconscious are the archaic images in potentia which Jung has named the archetypes. "The archetype is essentially an unconscious content that is altered by becoming conscious and by being perceived, and it takes its colour from the individual consciousness in which it happens to appear" (Jung, 1968b, 5). The archetype manifests itself through the symbol. It is for this reason that the symbol always points to some unutterable truth beyond itself. "Symbols are never simple," Jung C1969, 254) tells us, "only signs and allegories are simple." The archetype, concentrated psychic energy in the unconscious, will attract from the conscious mind the image which will make its message perceptible. Thus behind every symbol stands an archetype. Jacobi (1959, 75) describes in the following manner the dialectic between them: "To define it from a functional point, we might say that the archetype as such is concentrated psychic energy, but that the symbol provides the mode of manifestation by which the archetype becomes discernible." 12 Now, the archetype of the collective unconscious is the ocean. It is precisely this symbol that Carmen Conde uses to describe the inner world of the poet, making evident the important function of the collective unconscious as a repository of poetic images.

Por dentro, el Poeta acaso serS un desordenado oceano, que si causa naufragios sostiene a temerarios nadadores. Todo llega all! con su resonancia; todo cae all! con su gravedad. Tacta, escoge, realza la mano del Poeta para mostrarnos luego sus criaturas luminosas salvadas del naufragio y caminantes ya de las nubes, sin que el pueda decirnos c6mo (Conde, 1950, 289).

The archetypes of the collective unconscious tend to manifest themselves in the images of dream, myth, and fairy tale. For this reason Campbell (1956, 19) has commented, "Dream is the personalized myth, myth the depersonalized dream; both myth and dream are symbolic in the same general way of the dynamics of the psyche," Harding (1971, 12) explains why myths are a valuable source of information about the psyche:

The myths and rituals of ancient religions represent the naive projection of psychological realities. They are undistorted by rationaliza­ tion, for in matters which deal with the spirit realm, that is, the psychological realm, primi­ tive people and the people of antiquity did not think; they perceived by an inner or intuitive sense ....

For the same reason Conde (1950, 292) defines the poet as an essentially "mythical being": "El artista es un ser mitico que unge de su gracia lo que toca. Para §1 no hay misterio en la niebla; el oye lo inaudible; £l conoce los movimientos 13 que al detenerse causan escultura eterna." By learning the correspondences of symbolic language we can comprehend the psychological truths of myth.

We have only to disregard the dependence of dream language on environment and substitute "eagle" for "aeroplane," "dragon" for "automobile or train," "snake-bite" for "injection," and so forth, in order to arrive at the more universal and more fundamental language of mythology. This gives us access to the primordial images that underlie all thinking and have a considerable influence even on our scientific ideas (Jung, 1969, 289).

In examining the poetic world of Carmen Conde we shall have recourse to all three areas: dream, myth, and fairy tale, which have contributed to man's ability to understand and interpret the archetypes.

C. G. Jung sees the true poet not as the master of the creative urge within him but rather as its humble and sometimes unwilling servant.

Art is a kind of innate drive that seizes a human being and makes him its instrument. The artist is not a person endowed with free will who seeks his own ends, but one who allows art to realize its purposes through him. As a human being he may have moods and a will and personal aims, but as an artist he is "man" in a higher sense—he is "collective man," a vehicle and moulder of the unconscious psychic life of man­ kind. That is his office, and it is sometimes so heavy a burden that he is fated to sacrifice happiness and everything that makes life worth living for the ordinary human being (Jung, 1966a, 101).

Carmen Conde has understood the nature of poetic creation almost exactly as Jung has described it aboye, Sobrecogido por su propio misterio, el Poeta sabe mSs que nadie en la tierra. Para evidenciarlo, 14 s6lo tiene que escribir. Coger la pluma ... Abandonarse. ]No se podrS creer en un poeta con diccionarios, con preceptivas, con temas a desarrollar! El Poeta, como un ciego, avanza en la oscuridad radiante; tacta, estremecido, los carbones ardiendo de todos los deseos; es sobrehumanamente capaz de sentirlo todo, de sobrepasarlo todo. Su inquietud dentro de lo oscuro luminoso, es un jadeo arrebatado. Nada le es estrano: ni amor, ni dolor, ni muerte, las patrias imperecederas. GastSndose por su fluir sin descanso, quisiera verse libre, a veces, de su destino; descansar; iRecobrar el gozoso jtabilo de la inocencial (Conde, 1950, 287).

Great art is created, Jung tells us, when the artist permits the collective unconscious to speak through him, or, as Carmen Conde puts it, when the poet abandons himself to his own mystery. When the artist becomes the medium of the creative drive within, "A work of art is produced that may truthfully be called a message to generations of men" (Jung, 1966a, 98). Clearly Carmen Conde is a poet who understands the secret of allowing the transpersonal to speak through her. In her work we may expect to find a coherent archetypal structure indicated by the clusters of symbols which give it specific form. The following study is divided into three main parts. The first is an analysis of the poetic world aimed at identifying the major constellations of symbols and archetypes. Inasmuch as Carmen Conde is a sensitive and articulate woman, we hope through her work to be able to single out those characteristics which make the feminine poetic consciousness unique. Part 2, based principally on 15 an analysis of Mujer sin Edgn, examines the way woman defines herself in relation to man. Woman's tragedy follows upon a too literal interpretation of the myth of the fall in which she is associated with Original Sin and becomes a source of evil. Consequently, if she is to live a life of good, she must disavow her instinctual side, a situation which causes her inner conflict. Part 3 studies the manner in which that conflict is transcended. Through ecstasy the poet momentarily experiences the primordial unity which existed befo^ the separation of good and evil, intelligence and instinct, Logos and Eros. CHAPTER 2

THE FRUITFUL EARTH

While selecting poems for their anthology of modern American women poets, Segnitz and Rainey (1973, 15) searched for "patterns of motif and image which would illuminate the 'queer' business of being both a woman and a poet." Their investigations led them to conclude that the major concern of the contemporary American poetess is that of self- definition. Through her poetic creation each female author labors to formulate a new identity, unique and truly hers, not preformed for her by the dictates of her society nor designed for her by the male concept of what a woman ought to be. "The woman poet," they tell us, "experiences an alienating disjuncture between her perceptions of reality and those of the world" (Segnitz and Rainey, 197 3, 18). Thus, in seeking to study the feminine consciousness in the poetry of Carmen Conde, we feel compelled to address our^ selves first to this self-same problem. Does Carmen Conde, foremost voice among the women poets of Spain, experience this same "alienating disjuncture" as her American sisters? Is she, in fact, concerned with the problem of identity?

How does she perceive her dual role as woman and as poet? 17 Carmen Conde's early poetry does indeed reveal a number of poems which address themselves to the age-old question "who am I?" Our approach, then, will be on the one hand, to examine the poetic world she created, analyzing the ambience against which she defines herself, and, on the other, to examine those poems concerned with self-definition.

The poetic world of Carmen Conde is one rich with images which are developed in well-defined physical settings. The effective overriding principle might be said to be organic, i.e., oriented toward nature and, conse­ quently, her poetry abounds with references to growing things: to trees, to flowers, to fruit, to the products of the soil. What Neumann (1963, 51) refers to as "the archetypal numen of vegetation," displays itself in a proliferation of forms, textures and colors. The symbolic possibilities offered by the natural processes of the plant kingdom reflect the range of our life experience and so Carmen Conde capitalizes upon the different aspects of the cycle of germination, growth, maturation, and decay under­ gone by plants, At the same time she finds in this symbolic context a great variety of life forms. Trees are meaningful alone and in forests. They are important as entities in themselves and for their parts: their roots, their sap, their branches, and their leaves. But not of lesser value are some of the more lowly plant forms. 18 Grass, growing close to the soil, is associated with the delicate form of a new thought. Moss, which will cling to the damp crannies of rocky surfaces and biologically repre­ sents a lower order, incarnates the instinctual tenacity of human life, or the human psyche, to survive when existing in apparently barren or perilous places. Even algae, a still less developed life form, is of symbolic importance to Carmen Conde as she portrays the mysteries of creation and the primitive contents of the unconscious mind.

Disguised in this proliferation of symbolic vegeta­ tion functions the archetype of the Eternal Feminine. "The Great Mother who brings forth all life from herself is eminently the mother of all vegetation" (Neumann, 1963, 49). Carmen Conde has created a poetic world which in terms of - its implicit symbolic functioning reflects the mysteries of the transformation woman experiences in herself. In analyzing the archetype of the Eternal Feminine, Neumann notes that it functions on two levels. In its elementary character as the Great Round it "tends to hold fast to everything that springs from it and surround it like an eternal substance" (Neumann, 1963, 25), while in its transformative character, "the accent is on the dynamic element of the psyche, which . . . drives toward motion, change, and in a word, transformation" (Neumann, 1963, 29). Neumann indicates that it is common for both aspects of the archetype to be operative simultaneously, although 19 generally one will dominate the other in terms of symbolic configurations. In the poetry of Carmen Conde, we find that the elementary character of the archetype, the earth mother who gives life but also takes it back to herself, indeed the life cycle implied by the plant world, predominates in the poetic world described in Brocal and Sostenido ensueno. In later works the transformative character of the archetype gradually comes to assume greater importance.

Rising above the more earth-bound forms of the vegetative configuration, yet still rooted in its essence, is the figure of the tree, a symbol the poet uses to describe herself in "Autobiografla": Mi destino, como un fruto: de sus hojas verdes, olientes, a su corteza amarga, a su pulpa tierna y a su semilla agria y confortante. En lo remoto, un caliente paisaje; encima, muchos paisajes diversos; y manana, el zumo de la simiente, la gran slntesis de ra£z suprema. Para entre tanto, grande y gloriosa de sangre, construir y destruir los d£as. Vueltas de mi fruto, aspas de mi destino. Fracaso de cada vez en la vez de ilusi6n que se juega mi frente CConde, 1967, 183).

Every part of the tree from its exterior aspects, leaves and bark, to its inner pulp, and finally to its seed, containing the promise of new life, is in some way reminiscent of her own behavior and world view; tha,t she has selected a fruit tree indicates that she is dealing with a distinctly feminine symbol. 20 As fruit-bearing tree of life it is female; it bears, transforms, nourishes; its leaves, branches, twigs are "contained" in it and dependent on it. The protective character is evident in the tree top that shelters nests and birds. But in addition the tree trunk is a container, in which dwells its spirit, as the soul dwells in the body (Neumann, 1963, 49). Jung (1967, 219) also comments on the tree as a feminine symbol, noting that, "The tree may have been, in the first instance, a fruit-bearing genealogical tree, and hence a kind of tribal mother." Thus, embodying the principal functions of the archetypal feminine, the tree is for Carmen Conde an appropriate symbol for herself. The tree is as well an apt symbol both for spiritual development and artistic creation. The tree with its roots sunk into the soil grows heavenward thus uniting the chthonic values with the uranic values. As poet, Carmen Conde draws on the nutrients of the unconscious, while growing toward greater spiritual integration. Each year the fruit tree bears a crop capable of beginning anew the life cycle. The relation of this aspect of the tree to h_er own activity is pointed out by the use of the word paisaje, which, as we shall see later in greater detail, is usually associated with her poems. It represents the landscape of the poetic world which flows from within her. As the tree grows upward, its vantage point changes. While a sapling, it views one paisaje, but new and different scenes await each level it attains. Carmen Conde's paisajes or poems 21 can be compared on the one hand to the shifting perspectives of the tree and on another to the fruit of the tree. She has left behind the poems of other years, while the future holds forth the promise of new creation and synthesis. This creativity originates in the instinctual, the undifferen­ tiated earth, which, when successfully assimilated, can become "la gran s£ntesis de ralz suprema." In the last paragraph of "Autobiografla," the tree undergoes a metamorphosis and becomes a windmill. While on the one hand, the vueltas of the tree refer to the passing of the seasons, on the other, these revolutions become the aspas or the cross pieces of her destiny, evoking the superstructure of the windmill, which, when set in motion by the wind, becomes a wheel turning against the sky. We are reminded of a poem from Brocal, in which she says: jGira, molino! yo soy tu cielo (Conde, 1967, 36).

This revolving wheel is at once the uncertain wheel of fortune, the roulette wheel, suggested by the metaphor of the mind as a gambler in "Autobiografla," and the promise of the attainment of spiritual wholeness frequently symbolized by the figure of the circle (Jung, 1968b, 187). Like the fruit tree, her life passes through many seasons and the production of her poems—implying a proper relation to the unconscious creative center within her— becomes the axis of her spiritual growth. Each poetic 22 attempt seems imperfect, but the potential for new creation is ever present in her being. Thus in this poem in which she examines her own orientation we find her a human fruit tree "gloriosa de sangre" searching through her roots, her touch with the unconscious, and her poems, her intellectual fruit, for a greater understanding of life. Nourishing the tree is the soil of the Great Earth Mother and it is in this context that we must understand the function of tierra in the poetry of Carmen Conde. The earth is the great and fertile bearer of fruits, heart of the Archetypal Feminine around which the other volatile elements revolve. Speaking to the earth, the poet says: jYo serS de viento, de llama, de agua! £Qu£ primavera, qu§ incendio, qu£ rlo me cenirSn mejor que tti? (Conde, 1967, 31)'. In the creative act the poet associates herself in turn with each element. Air, fire, and water function and have meaning as each relates to the feminine earth. In "Soplo" this same symbolic equation is expressed in a dialogue between the poet and the earth.

Mios son los p&jaros y mlo es el aire. Alas para que se remonte mi pensamiento. Mlo es tu • pensamiento, dice la tierra; cuerpo el tuyo para que yo hable. Mia es la tierra dice el cuerpo. Y es porque se la cine como una piel hfimeda de ralces, exactamente (Conde, 1967, 176),

She may assume that the faculty of thinking belongs to the upper, spiritual realm, to that portion of the 23 biosphere inhabited by birds, but the earth reminds her that her thought originates with it. The instinctual basis of human nature cannot be denied. In her essay on Juan Ram6n

Jim§nez she tells us, "Buscar a la Eternidad es tarea de alma que se alimenta con sangre de la tierra" (Conde, n.d., 29). Accordingly in "Soplo," the title of which undoubtedly refers to the force of the wind which will bear her thought skyward, the cuerpo nevertheless acknowledges its primary relation to the chthonic values of the earth which it wears around it like a damp skin of roots, fitting so exactly that it calls to mind the network of veins showing just beneath the skin.

In The Psychoanalysis of Fire, Bachelard C1968, 92) speaks of the poet who responds "to the charm of a favorite image . . .":

Reverie has four domains, four points from which it soars into infinite space. To surprise the secret of a true poet, of a sincere poet, of a poet who is faithful to his original language and is deaf to the discordant echoes of sensuous eclecticism, which would like to play on all the senses, one word is sufficient; "Tell me what your favorite phantom is. Is it the gnome, the salamandre, the sylph or the undine?" (.Bachelard, 1968, 90).

For Carmen Conde the answer would certainly have to be "undine," for while we have seen the archetype of the eternal feminine subsumed in her symbolic treatment of the earth, no other image casts for her the spell that water does in all its different manifestations. Even the great 24 earth is ultimately seen as held in the caressing grasp of

a masculine sea.

Con la frente vuelta hacia las estrellas de un cielo que todavla no las mostraba por empefio de gris suavlsimo, y el cuerpo ajustado a la tierra, hundidos los dedos en el calor obstinado que el sol le dejara como presencia, te ola, mar, y no en el viento de tu orilla a mis pies cortada, sino debajo de mi cabeza, en la socavada holgura de tu tierra poselda, penetrada, quejosa del gozo Sspero de tu caricia continua (Conde, 1967, 180).

Water assumes a variety of forms in the poetry of Carmen Conde. It appears in pools, in rivers and in streams. Brocal (1929), her first book of poems, suggests the fabulous opening of the well, descending into the bowels of the earth, from which the waters of the unconscious, heavy with poetic imagery, may be drawn up. Water occurs in springs and fountains, is considered as a flowing body and as separate drops. It is also the life-bringing force that descends as rain. The poet herself acknowledges the symbolic importance of water as inspiration and primary creative aspect of her poetic world, when she tells us in

"Sobre la realidad, el sueno": yo s6lo escucho las aguas. Se desprendieron del mar, pero ya no estUn saladas (Conde, 1967, 551) ,

These waters which speak to the poet in dream have become internalized. They are closely related to the waters of the sea, indeed have a common origin, but are now at one remove. They are no longer salty, which is to say that they can be assimilated into the river system of the inner geography of the poetic world. No longer part of the vast undifferentiated mass of the unconscious sea,4 they now are able to assume specific symbolic content.

Water is defined first as a function of the feminine earth. Stressing this relationship in "Los molinos," the poet refers to "cubos de tierra llquida" (Conde, 1967, 99).

Frequently water appears as the balsa. The windmill summons the water to lie in the hollows of the land in which atti­ tude embraced by the archetypal earth mother it retains the symbolic aspect of the unconscious associated with

Neumann's "elementary" character of the feminine archetype. The water of the balsa is certainly closely related to the water of the lake. The lake in the valley is the unconscious, which lies, as it were, underneath consciousness, so that it is often referred to as the "sub­ conscious," usually with the pejorative connota­ tion of an inferior consciousness. Water is the "valley spirit," the water dragon of Tao, whose nature resembles water—a yang embraced in the yin. Psychologically, therefore, water means spirit that has become unconscious (Jung, 1968b, 18).

Conversely, of course, it may also mean spirit in potentia. The relation of the unconscious balsa to the core of the feminine psyche is made clear in a fantasy

4, Carmen Conde's use of the sea as symbol is so extensive and the related metaphors so complex, that the problem of the sea as symbol will be treated in a later section. It should, however, be noted in passing that, generally speaking, the sea is for her a masculine symbol. about the windmill in which we discover that the water of

the mill is not cold, even though it is a winter morning. The water of the mill is warmed by the heat of the feminine earth which contains it. The poet assumes the identity of the wind as pneuma or creator. She is the elementary force which can start the mill turning. Seeing the mill silent and still, she wonders whether the water of the depths is cold. She approaches and engages the water in dialogue.

In reply to her question it tells her:

-La tierra que nunca estS fria, me guarda entre sus brazos. Pero yo quisiera ver el sol. jStlbeme, viento! (Conde, 1967, 101). Once the water of the balsa has surfaced, it assumes

a new symbolic configuration; its still waters are the

mirror, the speculum. Vater in this situation becomes a uniting symbol, which, while never leaving the embrace of the earth, centers in itself the spiritual qualities of the heavens. "Porque el Agua junta cielo y tierra en tan perfecta uni6n que ofrece la doble contemplaci6n en tlnica entidad dichosa" (Conde, n.d., 13). Water, as a uniting symbol, becomes a metaphor for the transformation latent in the archetype of the feminine, Neumann's "transformative character," by means of which the feminine psyche can attain to the values of the spirit.

Balsa, ventana del panorama, jqu§ gran viaje hago a las estrellas cuando me asomo a ti, con esta altura de sienes volcada en tu agua hondaj (Conde, 1967, 34). 27 As Jung (1968b, 19) aptly observes, "The descent into the depths always seems to precede the ascent."

Spiritual transformation is achieved through a proper relation to one's own unconscious. The voyage to the stars takes place via the deep waters. Coursing through Carmen Conde's poetry like a giant

circulatory system is the network of rivers that fecundate

the archetypal earth. Neumann (1963, 48, 96) stresses the bisexual aspect of moving waters, but, in general, we must

observe that the rivers of Carmen Conde have a feminine nourishing role, carrying symbolic contents much as the

blood stream carries nutrients. Often she identifies with the river itself as when she says, "El aqua que correrS en tus rlos, ser£ yo" (Conde, 1967, 34), or "Fluye mi camino al tuyo, como un arroyo a un pino" (Conde, 1967, 35). Some­ times she speaks of an internal river when, as in "Ausencia del amante," she tells us, "Voy al r£o en busca de mi sombra" (.Conde, 1967, 254) or the river may represent the sensuous flowing of instinct as in "Comienzo de la noche": jOh rlo en penumbra! Labio celeste: civido sorbedor de tierra seca. Dedos que se ofrecen tr§mulos de la orilla al contacto ... Lento venir y mansa la espera de llegar adorde. Rfo henchido de doncellas que te navegan un^nimes (Conde, 1967, 434).

That Carmen Conde herself relates the river system of the macrocosm to the blood stream of the microcosm is 28 apparent in "Agua":

Desde remotas edades o desde turbias entranas estaba viniendo el r£o ...

Lento al nacer, agigantando el paso por ir a donde esperan a los rlos (Conde, 1967, 501).

"Remotas edades" and "turbias entranas" are synthesized into one image at the end of the poem when Conde (1967, 514) tells us, "Yo soy el Rio." In Mientras los hombres mueren the river is a metaphor for the bloodstream. jPiedras y ramas, olas y bosques, venid a guardar bajo vosotros el r£o de jdbilo que va dentro de las venas de los ninos! (Conde, 1967, 213).

The comparison of water to blood is one which Carmen Conde finds in the poetry of Juan Ram6n Jimenez, for whom she had the greatest admiration and whose words she quotes in her essay on his works. In "El regante granadino" Juan Ram6n relates how one evening he sat listening to the fountains of the Generalife until it seemed that the system of the microcosm blended with that of the macrocosm, become at that moment a world of falling water.

Bajaba sin fin el agua junto a mi o£do, que recogla, puesto a ella, hasta el mSs fino susurro, con una calidad contagiada de exquisito instrumento maravilloso de armonfa; mejor, era, perdido en si, no ya instrumento, mCisica de agua, mlasica hecha agua sucesiva, interminable. Y aquella mdsica del agua la o£a yo iricis cada vez y menos al mismo tiempo, menos, porque ya no era externa sino £ntima, mla? el agua era mi sangre, mi vida, y yo o£a la mtfsica de mi vida y mi sangre en el agua que corria. Por el agua yo me comunicaba con el interior del mundo (Conde, n.d., 16). 29 A healthy circulatory system is essential for the continuance of life. Thus it is in the context of this circulatory symbolism that the verb latir and its correspond­ ing noun latido take on special meaning. The latido is regarded as a pulse beat. Its presence announces an abundance of psychic energy. Thus in "Amor" the poet asks: Fuentes derramSndose desde las entranas de la tierra son estos latidos que conmueven el aire hasta hac^rmelo tlictil de tan dolido? CcO es mi corazSn que se sale de su yacija de temblores al tfnico contacto de su voz?) (Conde, 1967, 181).

Love provides the stimulation which puts her in touch with her origins. Her psychic springs produce ideas at such a rate and her awareness is so heightened by these latidos that the air acquires not only a tactile quality but even becomes painful. The opposite situation, a lack or interruption of libidinal forces is often indicated by images of cold, heaviness, or paralysis. In Mientras los hombres inueren, the absence of creative energy is indicated by the mutila­ tion of the natural processes which are essential to the functioning of life. In reference to her own psychic condition she cries, "jY mi coraz6n en punal, como el vuestro, hermanos de la sangre en llamas, tiene cada dia mSs rotas sus geografias de latidos!" (Conde, 1967, 188).

War shatters the functioning of a vigorous life system 30 but a far more insidious enemy is depression, which strangles the organism by slowing the necessary circulation. El desaliento no es recio como un hurac&n de fuego que todo lo empuja ... Crece en menudlsimos hilos, en inacabables hebras viscosas, entretejidas a las venas, asfixiando la espesa circulaci6n, el lento y penoso rio de la sangre ... (Conde, 1967, 615).

Comparable to the presence of libido in man is the rising of sap in the plant, an image which Conde (1967, 364) employs to describe the vigor of the poet's voice in Honda memoria de ml:

Lo que lleva siempre sonsigo es su impulso, su arrebato. El empuje a nacer de los jardines; a correr, de los arroyos; y el celo inocente, sagrado, del amor vegetal.

In "Canto a los seres hermosos," beauty is associ­ ated with a heightened pulse beat and the resulting increase in the rate of circulation. To be beautiful is "... temblar lleno de zumo" (Conde, 1967, 436)_.

The nourishing aspect of blood and sap is related to the milk that flows from the mother's breast. In Honda memoria de ml associating herself with, the many generations of the past she tells us that she is La mujer que rocla de leche al hijo que le pusieron mientras ellas se precipitaba al hervor crepitante del genesis (Condef 1967, 357). 31 Based on the notion of water as the basic substance of life, Carmen Conde develops a series of symbolic contexts for revealing the pervasiveness of the feminine orientation.

The fluir of the river is akin to the pulsing of the blood through the human body, which in turn is related to the rising of the sap in the plant or the nourishing milk of the breast. Each in turn is a function of the body of the

Mother Archetype. In support of his belief that the poet responds to a charmed image, Bachelard (1968, 109) writes

that metaphors are not simple idealizations which take off like rockets only to display their insignificance on bursting in the sky, but that on the contrary metaphors summon one another and are more co-ordinated than sensations, so much so that a poetic mind is purely and simply a syntax of metaphors.

Wellsprings, yet another configuration of water symbolism, represent first of all a natural bubbling forth of subterranean waters. As such, they are a natural outlet for the water of the underground river. The wellspring is an autonomous eruption of psychic energy. it is this aspect of the process which Conde (1967, 251) stresses in "Ofrecimiento," when she says,

Ncidame. Fuentes profundas y frias avivan mi corriente.

She herself is the flowing stream. Rising directly from the center of her being, these waters maintain their original purity. They have not gathered silt flowing over the land, and unlike the serene, reflecting waters of the 32 balsa, they have not been warmed in the bowels of the earth before being drawn up by the windmill. Rising autonomously from within, they swell the flowing current. The well- spring represents the essence of the creative impulse which ascends on its own volition straight from the source.

The fountain is a secondary, man-made elaboration through which the water of the spring is channeled either for aesthetic or utilitarian purposes. The water of the fountain has been directed by human ingenuity toward a specific end. It is energy that has been modified by civilization. In a sense it has been de-energized or removed from the mythic zone, yet symbolically the fountain retains its function as an image of the source. The Spanish word fuente refers at once to "manantial de agua que brota de la tierra," and to "Aparato o artificio con que se hace salir el agua en los jardines y en las casas, calles o plazas, para diferentes usos, traygndola encanada desde los manantiales o desde los dep6sitos" CDiccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "fuente"). It is in this context as symbol of the source that we must consider the fountain which appears in a poem entitled, "En una plaza de Compostela." Han pasado unos hombres sobre la tierra dura. Resonaron las calles con su pisar monStono. Uno de ellos, el de los ojos blancos, se ha dormido en la piedra .,., se ha quedado hecho estatua. 33 Porque hay hombres asf: cuyo origen de mSrmol no descansa hasta hallar su matriz primitiva. Son los hSroes antiguos, son acaso los santos que en madera no caben porque llevan el fuego. El mSs joven qued6 con la mano extendida; a sus pies desplegaron una fuente de crines. En la noche desierta, mientras funden las horas su sonar de carapanas, el erguido medita.

dFue guerrero, fue santo? Junto a SI, peregrina, yo deslizo mis fuentes de sonar ... Y la plaza con tritones de algas me contesta en quietud ... jQu£ doncel para amar en la noche de siglos! CConde, 1967, 306). The fountain, the central image, is located in Santiago de Compostela, site of the reliquary of the bones of St. James which, according to legend, had been mysteri­ ously wafted across the sea in a shell, following the Apostle's martyrdom in Jerusalem. After their discovery at the beginning of the ninth century, a sanctuary was constructed for them by order of Alfonso the Chaste (791- 842). At this point we must note that the poet indicates that she is also a peregrina, as she listens to the waters of the fountain. We have a clustering of the symbols of the pilgrimage or Quest. The poet has found her way to the waters of the fountain, symbol of the center and beside them she dreams, begins the process of introversion, seeking the waters of her own center.

Above the fountain rises the statue of a young man

"con la mano extendida." His extended hand suggests the pose of the spiritual guide. We are told that as he passed over the earth he "fell asleep'1 in the stone, 34 Porque hay hombres asl: cuyo origen de m&rmol no descansa hasta hallar su matriz primitiva CConde, 1967, 306).

Various of the attributes associated with him suggest that he is a paradigm of the questing soul, perhaps another pilgrim, who would achieve spiritual integration. His white eyes, the blank orbs of the statue, evoke the image of the saint who swoons in mystical rapture. 5 His marble origin, which manifests itself in his assuming the form of a statue, coincides symbolically with the attainment of spiritual integration. These "stone" people, Carmen

Conde tells us, are no ordinary mortals. They are the bearers of a spiritual fire which is so intense that it precludes their representation in wood. Hence their matriz primitiva is stone, symbol of spiritual integration. The fountain is surmounted by the statue of a seeker who has already achieved the goal to which other pilgrims, lately come, aspire. At his feet, "desplegaron una fuente de crines." The waters of the fountain are reminiscent of the wavy mane of a horse.

5. In relation to the description of the statue's eyes, it is worth noting the expression in Spanish poner uno los ojos en bianco "volverlos de modo que apenas se descubra mSs que lo bianco de ellos" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "ojos").

6. Cirlot (1962, s.v. "stone") considers stone to be a symbol of "being, of cohesion and harmonious reconciliation with the self." 35 Through the centuries the statue meditates above the water while the ringing of the church bells, whose purpose is to call man to religious meditation, seems to fuse into one long night. The verb fundir also implies the theme of spiritual integration. While its first meaning has to do with the melting down or fusion of metals, in a figurative sense it refers to the coming together of "intereses, ideas o partidos que antes estaban en pugna" (Diccionario de la lengue espanola, 1970, s.v. "fundir").

The location of the fountain is, in general, significant in establishing its proper symbolic context. Cirlot (.1962, s.v. "fountain") tells us:

There can be no doubt that its significance as the mystic "Centre" is confirmed and re­ inforced when it is portrayed in architectural plans: whether in the cloister, the garden or the patio, the fountain occupies the centre position, at least in the majority of architec­ tural works built during periods within the symbolist tradition, as in Romanesque or Gothic edifices.

Carmen Conde's fountain does not appear in cloister or patio but rather'occupies the central position of a plaza which is, nonetheless, part and parcel of a vast religious complex and as permeated by religious sentiment as the cloister or patio of the convent. Beside the foun­ tain that flows at the feet of this mythical spiritual guide, the poet, through the magical sound of the water, which we have seen analyzed by Juan Ram6n Jimenez as an avenue to one's inner thoughts, comes into contact with her own inner springs and releases her "fuentes de sonar." The plaza, from every side, responds with "tritones de algas." The triton is a mythological creature half-man, half-fish,

a minor attendant of the other sea gods of antiquity. "His special attribute is a twisted sea-shell, on which he blows, now violently, now gently, to raise or calm the billows" (Seyffert, 1956, s.v. "triton"). Thus the sound with which the plaza answers her dreaming comes from the conch shell of the triton. It is he who can calm or whip to a frenzy the waves of her inner sea, the ancient sea of the collec­ tive unconscious, from which arise the images of the archetypes, the representatives of our common human experience. The tritons who answer her, blowing on their conch shells, are "tritones de algas," related to the most ancient forms of life. The response of the triton implies a particular sort of message, for the triton is associated with the preeminently sexual symbol of the horse. In the course of time there grew up the notion of a large number of Tritons, all repre­ sented as beings of double form and sometimes with the fore-feet of a horse as well as a human body and a fish's tail. They were, how­ ever, always regarded as attendants on the other sea-gods while riding or driving over the waves; and they were represented accord­ ingly in works of art (Seyffert, 1956, s.v. "triton"). That it is the triton who answers the poets' dream-r ing can mean only one thing: for this pilgrim to Santiago the way to spiritual integration lies through acknowledging 37 the instinctual forces within her. Comprehending this

message, Conde (1967, 306) concludes her poem by exclaiming of the guardian of the fountain, half-pagan hero, half- fiery saint, "jQu§ doncel para araar en la noche de siglosi"

The poet flames with love for this figure who symbolizes the harmonious integration of flesh and spirit.

The fuentes which flow outward from within the poet are part of the great feminine waterway which nourishes the

central archetype. The essentially feminine quality of the water of the fountain is made abundantly clear in another poem, "Despu^s del r£o," where the sexuality of young girls

returning from the river is compared to the water of the fountain:

Las muchachas, vosotras, os alzSis con Is fuentes y se os llevan las aguas en desnudez litfirgica: ofreciSndoos en ritos que consuma la tierra CConde, 1967, 433). Each drop of water is a bit of feminine essence which rises in offering but returns to the earth from which it came, true to its feminine nature. Neumann (1963, 49),

addressing himself to the apparently masculine qualities of the spring, the water which may spurt forth in jet-like fashion evoking the phallus, remarks that in the spring the rising, erupting motif of "being born" and of creative movement is more strongly accentuated than that of being con­ tained. Yet symbolically the spring's connec­ tion with the maternal earth nevertheless remains the determining factor. 38

Closely related to the droplets of water dispersed in beautiful patterns by the fountain, is the notion of water as rain. Rain has two principal symbolic configura­ tions. It may fall from heaven as a celestial purifier or it may act as a fructifying agent (Cirlot, 1962, s.v. "rain").

Since the water can be symbolically related to the breast as well as the womb, the rain can appear as the milk of the celestial cow and the earth water as the milk of the earth body, for the milk-giving animals, especially the cow and the goat as central symbols of the nourishing earth, exist as cosmic entities both above and upon the earth (Neumann, 1963, 48). While both aspects of rain symbolism exist in the poetry of Carmen Conde, we find that rain as fertilizing agent seems to predominate. 7 As an illustration of this symbolic complex, we shall examine a poem entitled, "Lluvia en mayo."

jCucin hermosa tti, la desveladaj Te lleva y te moldea dulce viento encima de jardines y de estatuas. Tu cuerpo es el de Venus en la orilla eternamente mar dentro del alba. Acude siempre a mi, s£me propicia. La fiesta de las hojas en sus ramas te rinden los esbeltos sonadores que en movibles racimos se levantan.

No tengo ni una flor ... Solo mi tronco aloja por frutal una campana. Lluvia que contemplo, melanc6lica: no crezcas para mi. Vivo inundada (Conde, 1967, 295).

7. See also Conde (1967, 386, 485, 426). 39 In this poem we see the poet once more defined as a tree, contemplating the rain along with the other "esbeltos sonadores," whose leaves dance beneath the falling drops creating what she refers to as "la fiesta de las hojas." The rain is compared to "Venus en la orilla," a reference to

Aphrodite. It is in this mythic context that we find two legends which relate the birth of Aphrodite from the sea. The first refers to Aphrodite as Anadyomene, "she who rises out of the sea, and steps ashore on Cyprus ..." (Seyffert, 1956, s.v. "Aphrodite"). The second accounts for her origin by explaining that she arrived at the island of Cythera in a seashell, subsequently proceeding on to

Cyprus (Seyffert, 1956, s.v. "Aphrodite"). More importantly Aphrodite "is the goddess of gardens and groves, of Spring and its bounties, especially tender plants and flowers, as the rose and the myrtle" (Seyffert, 1956, s.v. "Aphrodite"). In other words by comparing the rain to Venus-Aphrodite, Carmen Conde has evoked a goddess of fertility at her moment of glory, for she was most revered, "at that season of the year in which her birth from the sea was celebrated at Paphos in Cyprus" (.Seyffert, 1956, s.v. "Aphrodite"). The spring rain then is the goddess of fertility to whom she says beseechingly,

"Acude siempre a mi, s£me propicia" (Conde, 1967, 295).

The rain is first described as "la desvelada," one awake and, by extension, a force whose nature it is to awaken, for the rains of spring are essential to the germina­

tion of new plants. Gently molded by the wind it falls upon

gardens and statues. The wind as purveyor of the rain plays a secondary role as fructifier. The rain falls at dawn for which reason Carmen Conde describes it as, "eternamente mar

dentro del alba." In the gray light of early morning, rain and sea are indistinguishable. It is one huge, watery world reminiscent of the chaos of Genesis before God divided the waters from the land, related as well to the motif of inundation which we shall see repeated in the last line. The poet is melancholy for, as she tells us, "No

tengo ni una flor." Her human tree has not yet blossomed, although it is the season for such activities, but it does contain potential. Her trunk houses a bell. Of the symbolism of the bell Cirlot C1962, s.v. "bell") tells us,

Its sound is a symbol of creative power. Since it is in a hanging position, it partakes of the mystic significance of all objects which are suspended between heaven and earth. It is related by its shape, to the vault and, conse­ quently, to the heavens.

In the present context, however, while stressing its associations via its sound with the "creative powers," of which Cirlot speaks, we must also note that the shape of the bell is that of an inverted vessel, which when lodged in a female tree assumes the symbolic properties of the womb, especially when the poet emphasizes its associations with fruits, "... mi tronco ' aloja por frutal una campana." It 41 is this creative center, which under the right conditions, will produce the desired fruit, be it a poem or a meta­ phorical child, the attaining of a new spiritual perspec­ tive.

In the last line we find a surprising poetic reversal. Whereas she had previously said, "Acude siempre a ml, s£me propicia," now she says to the rain:

Lluvia que contemplo, melancSlica: no crezcas para ml. Vivo inundada CConde, 1967, 295). The waters have already risen to flood stage and she finds herself submerged. "Immersion in water signifies a return to the preformal state, with a sense of death and annihilation on the one hand, but of rebirth and regenera­ tion on the other, since immersion intensifies the life- force" (Cirlot, 1962, s.v. "water"). "Lluvia de mayo," then, represents a succinct poetic statement that on the one hand she must be touched by the gentle fructifying rain of Spring if she is to create, but that what she needs at this particular moment is rather the separation of the waters, following inundation, which heralds spiritual rebirth.

The importance of rain as the element which makes fertile the dry land is also prominent in a poem from En un mundo de fugitivos. Dijeron que si pSjaros, o nubes, o las lluvias; acaso una bandada de rosas sin jardines ... Lo cierto era el olor, lo infinite indudable que todo se movla, cantando, en sus contornos. 42

ILO que nadie negara, porque verdad del cielo era que todo olfa a lluvia en tierra seca! CConde, 1967, 612).

It is the smell of the rain penetrating the dry land which sets the world in motion making it sing. It is this moment of regeneration, which then becomes a metaphor for the moment of creative synthesis.

Y el dla se conmovi6, y la noche dio un grito ... jUn galope, un rugido, qui£n supo lo que era.' El coraz6n, callado, contuvo su voz gruesa. La boca dio sus labios a la palabra exacta. Era igual que los pSjaros, que la lluvia o las nubes. Cierto como un ensuefio, verdad como la vida CConde, 1967, 612).

Great forces are stirred, "un galope," "un rugido," inner forces that must find release, and it is at this moment that the lips form "la palabra exacta." It is like "los pSjaros," "la lluvia," or "las nubes." In other words, we are dealing with the articulation of a poetic image. It is certain "como un ensueno," a descriptive phrase which unerringly links it to the problem of poetic creation, for as we shall see later, ensueno is a term which Carmen Conde consistently associates with poetic creation. Ensueno is the special realm of the poet in which she gathers the new materials of her art. Finally this exact word is "verdad como la vida," for the dynamic of poetic creation is the very essence of life for Carmen Conde. Like the dry land which cannot produce without the fructifying waters of rain, the poet must have recourse to the waters of the feminine unconscious which will supply both the energy and the images necessary to creative activity. Once more we see rain

interpreted as a function of the feminine earth.

In the last example of water symbolism which we wish to consider, we shall see the entire world of the macrocosm contained in the microcosm of a drop of water. Cuando era montana, cordillera, cima y llanura, pradera de trgboles, pozo, torrente, r£o sin orillas accesibles, brasa ... te faltaban brazos para contenerme. Pero he reducido mis limites; soy breve y compacta; quepo en tu purio, apenas si reboso de tu boca o te asomo en los ojos. Comprueba.

that the poet is speaking to the "Dios" of Christian mythology who is both Ruler of the heavens and Supreme

Creator. "Que no llueva decretaste porque tta puedes mandarlo" (Conde, 1967, 902), and later in the same poem she asks, "C6mo quieres que sepamos qu§ buscas con tu sequla / si el cielo gobiernas til ..." CConde, 1967, 903). This masculine ruler of the heavens stands in opposition to all the creative power contained within the archetype of the

Great Mother which has been traditionally associated with

8, This poem appears in Enajenado mirar, a book which contains poems composed between 1962 and 1964, at which point the poet would have been at least fifty-five years old. 44 the values of the matriarchy (Neumann, 1963, 25). Thus we

see in this poem, on the one hand, the opposition of two world views, and on the other, the more personal dialectic between the poet and the masculine deity addressed. When she was mountain, cordillera, peak and plain, a river over­ flowing its banks, he had no arms to contain her. She was

the magnificent creative surge of the feminine archetype,

the boundless earth in all its manifestations. She repre­ sented a creative system sufficient unto itself, but with the passing of the years she has reduced her size. From the perspective of the second half of life she describes herself as light, compact. She will fit in the fist of the mighty Creator. Yet she cannot be contained. Large or small, she still represents the same vital creative force which weighs on the so-called omnipotent god of a mythological structure now devoid of meaning. Her vitality will cause the whole structure to sink with the weight of her vital force. She would like to be contained, see a fruitful synthesis of the one system with the other, a reconciliation between matriarchal and patriarchal points of view, but such is impossible. Thus she tells us "he de alejarme / para habitar en una gota de agua" (Conde, 1967,

905), Her whole world will be contained within a drop of water, a tiny bit of that essential element which symbolizes all that her feminine outlook contains. That world itself might be swallowed, absorbed, assimilated into the mythic 45 structure of the world of the creator with whom she seeks union. But it is a drop of water superfluous to his thirst, "que le sobra a tu sed." Uncontainable as the force that vitalizes the feminine macrocosm and uncon­ tainable as microcosm as well, she dwells in a drop of water which is superfluous to the force which "thinks" creation from on high, and is basically alien to the fertile earth.

We find water to be for Carmen Conde the "charmed image" which dominates her poetic world. It is like earth a passive element (Jung, 1954, 211) containing in its flow the creative aspects of the feminine archetype. The completeness of her identification with this orientation is evident in a portion of a poem entitled "cSntico," where addressing the youth of the future she warns him of the hidden dangers of the feminine: No mires los estanques—mis ojos—, ni siquiera los rlos—mis brazos—, muchlsimo menos la mar: mi boca tibia y melanc6lica. Esp^rate a ti mismo en las locas encrucijadas del futuro, jVete ya contigol CConde, 1967, 832] , These lines indicate a fundamental understanding of the negative, as well as the positive, aspects of the feminine archetype that lurks in the water. For the Great Mother has as well a negative, devouring side. The eyes may bewitch, the mouth may betray, and the arms may strangle. 46 An essential characteristic of this adolescent ego stage is that the female, under the aspect of the Great Mother, is experienced as having a nega­ tive fascination. Two features are especially common and well marked: the first is the bloody and savage nature of the great Mother Goddess, the second is her power as a sorceress and a witch (Neumann, 1970, 54).

Thus the youth whem she addresses, "Joven y lejano,

remoto y esperanzado / muchacho" (Conde, 1967, 831), is like the adolescent ego, vulnerable, easily deceived by the wiles of the negative feminine, the unconscious which would take possession of him again. Consequently she warns him: No mires los estanques—mis ojos—, ni siquiera los rlos—mis brazos—, muchisimo menos la mar ... (Conde, 1967, 832). Water is first and foremost for Carmen Conde a symbolic system which functions in relation to the great feminine earth. As it lies in pools, it is also the uniting

symbol joining together for human contemplation the chthonic and uranic values. As the water of the river, it becomes the circulatory system of the earth in which aspect we find it intimately associated with the nourishing symbolism of blood, sap, and milk. Here we may draw a parallel with the role played by the waters of Indian mythology. "They are the life-maintaining element that circulates through nature in the forms of rain, sap, milk and blood" (Zimmer, 1972, 34). In similar fashion all the living organisms of Carmen

Conde's poetic world are sustained by the archetypal feminine. As it appears in spring and fountain, water 47 symbolizes at once the source of life, and the spiritual center. As rain, it is the fertilizing agent which makes the land verdant, and as the gota, the single drop, it becomes the microcosm containing within itself a complete life system, the poet herself, a perfect reduced image of the more grandiose life forces of the macrocosm. In every facet of this complex system water is at once a purveyor of the essence of the feminine archetype and at the same time a symbol for the various psychic processes which the transformation of the archetype implies. In every aspect water is as well a mirror for the activities, be they creative or destructive, of the unconscious.

As Allen (1972, 7) has remarked in his symbological analysis of the poetry of Federico Garcia Lorca, "The cosmos of any poet may be defined as a mythic structure reared on an archetypal foundation, a bedrock of one or two primary symbols adumbrating the shape of all that he will ever create." While water in its multiple symbolic roles appears to be the most pervasive symbol in the poetry of Carmen Conde, we shall see a second symbol of equal importance consistently make its appearance in the later works, as the poet comes to be more and more concerned with the problems of spiritual transformation. Over the waters of the feminine unconscious will come to shine the spiritual light of logos. CHAPTER 3

FATE

Fate figures as the main theme in several early poems by Carmen Conde. To it she devoted a considerable portion of one of her essays from Mi libro de El Escorial. It enters into the problem of self-definition which we have been pursuing, for the manner in which one defines fate is bound to reveal the manner in which she sees one's life orientation. Carmen Conde's notion of fate is an integral part of the different life systems reflected in her poetry. Fate, whether projected onto the poetic world as an aspect of the feminine archetype or acknowledged as the stream of poetic inspiration, is experienced as a facet of the workings of the unconscious. Consequently, it is bound to be a major concern to any poet who concerns himself with the nature of the creative process, Neumann finds that the workings of fate are a part of the elementary character of the mother archetype.

The life feeling of every consciousness that feels small in relation to the powers is dominated by the preponderance of the Great Round that encompasses all change. This archetype may be experienced outwardly as world or nature or in­ wardly as fate and the unconscious (Neumann, 1963, 30).

48 49 In Sostenido ensueno Carmen Conde published two poems entitled "Sino," which are typical of the philosophical orientation of that book and represent a first step in her formulation of a theory of human destiny.

"Sino"

Este ser cae en ti como agua en una campana. El contacto con este ser es para tu cuerpo lo que la lumbre para la plata.

La posesi6n de tu alma es para este ser como la de la tierra para la raiz. £Qu§ puedes hacer ttl si no es pertenecerle igual que el zumo a la naranja, la sangre a la arteria, el extasis al delirio? Arr&ncate, si puedes, esta espada que te atraviesa como si te hincara a las brasas del viviente dolor (Conde, 1967, 168).

In this poem we have a series of statements that seems to re-enforce Jung's (1966b, 29) contention that

"every process is a phenomenon of energy, and that all energy can proceed only from the tension of opposites."

Once more we note the bell functioning as the inverted vessel of the womb: "Este ser cae en ti como agua en una campana" (Conde, 1967, 168). The passive receptacle of the bell is invaded by the active principle of the water, here a masculine symbol. The tension between the masculine and feminine principles is apparent in their mutual attraction

/ which generates the energy to unite them, and it is this union which is their sino, for each really functions only in relation to the other. "El contacto con este ser es 50 para tu cuerpo lo que la lumbre para la plata" (Conde,

1967, 168). The relation between these two beings is what causes each to be realized. Silver would be dark and lusterless without light to reveal its shine. In similar fashion the soul of the passive, feminine being is to the masculine possessor as the earth to the root, a source of nourishment and an environment from which to grow. The union is seen as taking place on two levels. The ser in question must possess both the body and the soul of the passive principle. This possession, this relationship is sino. The being possessed has no recourse but to belong to the possessor, as juice pertains to the orange, blood to the artery and ecstasy to mystic rapture. The poet con­ cludes, "ArrSncate, si puedes, esta espada que te atraviesa ..." (Conde, 1967, 168). The feminine nature might wish to function other than in relation to her male counterpart but such is not her fate. Her nature is seen as one which imposes upon her certain limitations. The sword of the possessor pierces her in such a fashion that it appears to pin her to burning coals. Relationship signifies transformation, a change such as that brought about by intense heat. The process is not always painless.

Esther Harding's commentary on the nature of the elementary feminine is illuminating in relation to this poem. Of the woman who has not attempted to develop the "masculine" attributes of her personality Harding C1970, 6) 51 says, "Her whole way of functioning is in relation to someone else from whom she may attract attention or care or love." Indeed the feminine principle, which we have seen so frequently portrayed in the symbolism of water or in the archetype of the Great Earth Mother, "signifies relatedness, rather than love, for in the idea of Eros, negative or hate, is comprised as well as positive, or love" (Harding, 1970, 6).

To achieve a satisfactory relationship with another person, whether male or female, a woman must first have attained a proper relationship to the feminine principle within herself, which is to say that she must accept the conditions of her own femininity. She must function in harmony with her own nature. The acceptance of this intuited truth is the subject of the second sino poem.

"Sino" Avidez, porosidad.

Por tu cuerpo poroso y Svido circula la enriquecida sangre que te aumenta mi sangre. jQuiSn te cerrara esas bocas ardientes de tu piel con la llama de mi esplritu, habitante tuyo eterno! (Conde, 1967, 169).

In this transfusion poem, relationship with her symbolic opposite is eagerly sought. His blood is enriched by her blood which now circulates through his body. The union produces a rapturous sense of fulfillment. She wishes that with the flame of her spirit she might close the pores, "esas bocas ardientes de tu piel" CConde, 1967, 169), 52 sealing herself inside where she would dwell forever. The noteworthy aspect of this last phrase is that it is to be the flame of her spirit, "la llama de mi esplritu," which will effect the change. It is a function of the woman who

bears within the principle of Eros to initiate and to main­ tain relationship. Once sealed within, the union would be

complete. A perfect blending of the masculine and feminine psychological entities would take place, what is referred

to as the hieros gamos or sacred marriage (Harding, 1971,

146). The body of the loved one would lose its porosity, would become in itself complete. In the first sino poem it is the feminine which is awakened to the possibilities of psychological wholeness by possession, while in the second it is the principle of Eros which eagerly seeks that end. In her initial symbolic statements about sino, it is the principle of relatedness which Carmen Conde stresses.

In her essay, "Con la gracia y con el destino" Carmen Conde explains what she understands fate to be. Traditionally the word sino is defined as "hado" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "sino") which in turn refers to "Divinidad o fuerza desconocida que, segtan los gentiles, obraba irresistiblemente sobre las demSs divinidades y sobre los hombres y los sucesos."

Secondarily it refers to "Encadenamiento fatal de los sucesos" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 197Q, s.v. "hado"). This traditional concept of a divine force working 53 incomprehensibly and ineluctably to order the events of

man's life is not what Carmen Conde has in mind.

In the first place this power does not pertain to the discretion of some distant and mysterious divinity but rather resides in the soul of each human being (Conde, 1949, 81}.

El sino es un simbolo, no un concepto; es el centro de gravedad como historia, no como naturaleza. La idea del sino requiere experiencia de la vida, no experiencia cientffica; vigor intuitivo, no cSlculo; profundidad, no ingenio. Hay una "L6gica org^nica," instintiva, segura como un ensueno; y opuesta a la de lo inorgSnico, de la inteligencia, de lo intelectual. L6gica de la direcci6n, opuesta a la de la extension. Ni Kant, ni AristSteles (ni Calder6n entre los espanoles), filfisofos sistemSticos, la han visto. La palabra sino, alude en cambio a una inefable certidumbre interna. La "causalidad'' es diferenciaci6n? el sino, creaci6n. El sino es la vida; la causalidad es la muerte (Conde, 194 9, 82).

Sino is defined as a vital living force. Indeed, in another portion of the essay she refers to it as "la direcci6n viviente" (Conde, 1949, 83). She considers it to be a symbol as opposed to a concept, for a symbol points to living processes which the mind does not necessarily apprehend, The symbol awakens intimations, speech can only explain .... The symbol strikes its roots in the most secret depths of the soul, language skims over the surface of the understanding like a soft breeze .... Only the symbol can combine the most disparate elements into a unitary impression .... Words make the infinite finite, symbols carry the mind beyond the finite world of becoming, into the realm of infinite 54

being. They awaken intimations; they are tokens of the ineffable, and like it they are inexhaustible . . . (J. J. Bachofen quoted in Jacobi, 1959, 78).

Proceeding then to look at the positive values which are associated with sino as a symbol, "that configuration of meaning" which "strikes its roots in the most secret depths of the soul," we find that to understand what is meant by sino, one must possess experience of life, intui­ tion, and thinking which is profound rather than clever.

The corresponding negative values, which will not serve in deciphering this secret, are scientific or theoretical knowledge, the ability to calculate, and cleverness. These are the capacities of thought which are generally associated with the intellectual approach to a problem.

Jung grounds the workings of fate within the indi­ vidual himself, specifically in the workings of the un­ conscious. In this context he suggests the primordial images of the archetypes may well represent what man has, projecting them onto the cosmos, chosen to call fate. When an individual enters a critical phase of his life, the ensuing activation of the archetypes may present him with a natural solution to the problem in question, but the archetypes themselves must be properly perceived or apprehended.

By "apprehension" I do not mean simply intellectual understanding, but understanding through experience. An archetype, as we have 55 said, is a dynamic image, a fragment of the objective psyche,^ which can be truly under­ stood only if experienced as an autonomous entity (Jung, 1966b, 109).

Most noteworthy in this parallel approach to the idea of fate is the fact that, like Carmen Conde, Jung stresses that the process can not be understood solely from an intellectual basis, but must be experienced in its totality.

Carmen Conde goes on to tell us that the configura­ tion of "sino" has "una 'Logica interna,' instintiva, segura como un ensueno," This notion of an organic logic we find metaphorically stated in a poem entitled "Ansiedad."

En las flores puede hallarse; si, en las flores. O en los Srboles calientes, en los pinos. En las fuentes no, ni en mis palabras. Tampoco en los ensuenos que se quiebran sonoros Apenas un ardor los empuja cantando.

Busquemos en los tallos, removamos la tierra. HagSmoslo en silencio, cautamente, Dulcemente callados ... iHe aqui el secreto de las raices oscuras que aciertan con la luz, que se la visten! Ellas s6lo son. No busqu§is otro mundo, jRosa mia, nardo m£o, alhell que me inyades Igual que una naranja, o que un fres6n crujiente! Las cosas, las personas, los edificios caen ..., y si sonrles, lloras porque dura un instante tu sonrisa de isla que requiere su Mayo. Entre lo perfumado puro sigue siendo el misterio de transformar en gloria un mont6n de semillas. Si hubiere de ser flores, oler como los Ungeles.

9. The objective psyche is a term Jung (1966b, 66) uses for the collective unconscious as opposed to the personal unconscious, which he calls the subjective psyche. 56 serla mSs bello irme a ser tierra con flores (Conde, 1967, 270).

"Ansiedad" defines the inherent natural urge toward the development of wholeness experienced by all living organisms. It is the secret of life. Ansiedad is defined as "estado de agitaci6n, inquietud o zozobra del cmimo."

Here we see it applied metaphorically on a biologically more primitive level to the natural stirring or "agitaciSn"

(Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "ansiedad"), in living things which causes them to grow and develop. Regarding this process, Progoff (1973a, 122) comments:

In all the life processes, in the simplest plants and animals, there is a movement toward a goal. If obstacles appear, something in the essence of protoplasm works to overcome the diffi­ culties, to circumvent them or adapt to them, in order to reach the ultimate goal that is built into the protoplasmic nature of the organism. The organism spontaneously regulates its own behavior as though it knew what its goal was, and as though it knew what it actually had to do in order to achieve its goal.

The "movement toward a goal," mentioned by Progoff is the same "L6gica orgSnica" of which Carmen Conde speaks. It can be found in flowers, in "Urboles calientes," in deciduous trees when they are in leaf, and in pines. On the contrary, it can be found neither in well-springs nor in words. Although water often symbolizes a life process, particularly when it is flowing, it is not in itself an organic element. Neither are words, though they may be used to describe the process of growth. In addition, words 57 pertain to the sphere of "la inteligencia," which as we have seen in Carmen Conde's description of sino, belongs to the

side of negative values. Even dreams ("ensueno"), which

might appear to be a part of man's growth toward wholeness,

fail to pass the test of inclusion. They break the moment they impede the natural course of passion, "cuando un ardor los empuja cantando" (Conde, 1967, 270). The secret must be sought in the stems of plants

where growth is taking place, in the earth which nourishes them and above all in roots. The search is undertaken with the solemnity of a religious ritual in silence and with great care. In the realm of myth silence is a requisite condition for the successful completion of any sacred under^ taking. "Holy divine tasks," comments Jacob Grimm, "endure no babble: thus heilawac"^ must be drawn up in silence, in silence herbs of magic power be picked; cry out over a treasure, 'twill sink that moment out of sight" (Grimm,

1966, III, 971}, The noise of "lo intelectualf" the word of "la inteligencia" would shatter the silence in which the organic evolution of "Ansiedad" takes place, thus pre­ cluding the chance of ever discovering its secret. From the roots rise the plants which dress them­ selves in light. "He aqul el secreto de las ralces

10. Water which it was believed would turn into wine if drawn from the spring on Christmas or Easter at midnight. To it was ascribed a miraculous healing power (Grimm, 1966, II, 5851, 58 oscuras ... The secret of their existence is that, "Ellas s6lo son." They follow the natural impulse within them, their sino. They do not burden themselves with esoteric goals as does the human animal.

Las cosas, las personas, los edificios caen ... Y si sonrles, lloras porque dura un instante tu sonrisa de isla que requiere su Mayo (Conde, 1967, 270).

Man would capture eternity and, when he cannot, feels frustrated. Each smile is an island, a separate occasion that requires its own springtime and will last only an instant. In the fragrance of the flower is ever present the secret of regeneration, the stirring of life that begins with the seed. Entre lo perfumado puro sigue siendo el misterio de transformar en gloria un mont6n de semillas CConde, 1967, 270). It is the nature of the plant to complete its life cycle without the spiritual complications that confound man, and so at her death, Carmen Conde would rejoin the chthonic world and become a part of that cycle, "irme a ser tierra con flores" (Conde, 1967, 270).

The "I6gica orgHnica" of sino, then, can best be seen in the natural development of the plant. Opposed to that living process is the intellectual concept of causality.

"La 'causalidad' es diferenciaci<5n; el sino, creaci6n. El sino es la vida? la causalidad es la muerte" CConde, 1949, 59 82). Jung, perceiving the stultifying effect of trying to interpret all living phenomena in terms of cause and effect

(."la causalidad es la muerte" iConde, 1949, 82J) sought for a more comprehensive principle of interpretation which he called Syncrhonicity. Of this theory Jung (1964, 55) remarks, "It often seems that even inanimate objects cooperate with the unconscious in the arrangement of symbolic patterns." His theory was presented, Progoff (1973b, 4) tells us:

. . . as a means of filling a gap in the world view of science, specifically as a balance to the principle of causality. One distinguishing quality of Synchronicity ... is that it includes nonphysical as well as physical phenomena, and that it perceives these in non^ causal but meaningful relationship to one another.

Applying the idea of fate to human life, Conde (1949, 83) says:

En la idea del sino se revela el anhelo c6smico que atormenta a un alma, su ansia de luz, ascensi6n, cumplimiento, afSn de realizar el propio destino. A ningtln hombre le falta por completo la idea del sino. In the plant it is the "L6gica orgctnica" which guides the organism along the course of its development. The human is also guided by an unconscious directive center, but the development of the human comprehends a spiritual as well as a biological evolution. Thus for Carmen Conde the idea of sino when considered in human terms includes our "ansia de luz, ascensi6n, cumplimiento." It is our fate to 60 seek spiritual as well as biological fulfillment. Thus tormented by the desire to transcend a purely biological

development, man seeks to know who he is and in so doing he

forges "El propio destino," his own destiny. "Para los griegos el sino era lo que de pronto empuja al hombre, no el 'curso de su vida" (Conde, 1949, 84). Regarding the

relation of this unconscious stirring to the development

of human personality, Progoff (1973a, 127) comments:

The ultimate destiny of protoplasm is human personality. Here, as in life itself, much is dark. But here, too, as in the primal patterns of protoplasmic growth, something works in the darkness, casting forth images that become visible and meaningful in the light of experi­ ence. Out of the darkness of life and in the midst of the depths of still unformed personality, the human spirit emerges.

Carmen Conde1s sino stands behind both the emergence of the human personality and its spiritual development. In the light of the previous discussion, we may now examine the third poem which Carmen Conde entitles "Sino."

Si no es que soy ralz y s61o eso, jay!, £cucindo se verSn mi tallo y flores, y para cuSndo emergerSn mis frutos? £Qu§ dla espera el tiempo, cual el aire, 5 y por qu§ Dios me quiere parda lanza dentro de su tierra dura?

No es que quiera dejar de ser ralz cuando ya pueda ser tronco, hojas, ramos de mis flores mSs preclaras. 10 Fruto entre los dientes de los hombres, quiero seguir siendo ralz. Dar el salto tirando de la tierra y juntarla con el cielo. 61 Ralz siempre, entre los granos 15 pardos como ahora soy de parda. Pero yendo hacia el cimbito del vuelo, moverme entre las brisas; ser el puerto de las aves, la tabla del navlo, y que los vasos se colmen de mi cuerpo y de mi esencia.

20 Si no espero ser la flor, abrir en fruto, tener entre mis manos cielo y suelo, vibrar columna entre los dos ... JTIj, Dios; Tfa que me hiciste, no me obligues a ser una ralz dentro de tierra; 25 ralz, s6lo raiz; ralz hincada! (Conde, 1967, 278). This poem explores the meaning of growth toward psychic wholeness, in other words, the function of sino. The poem begins with a play on words for the initial clause

"si no es que soy ralz," literally "If I am not root when run together, would produce something similar to (my): "sino es que soy ralz . (my) "fate is to be a root," thus suggesting some doubt as to what fate really has in store for her. Carmen Conde compares herself to the tree whose various stages of growth comprise root, stem, flower and finally fruit. Each stage is governed by an inner mechanism that controls its development. Si no es que soy ralz y s6lo eso, jay! £cuSndo se ver£n mi tallo y flores, y para cuando emerger&n mis frutos? (Conde, 1967, 278).

She longs to attain her fruit stage. Yet she recognizes that for herself the attainment of wholeness comprehends not only a course of biological growth, but also 62 the integration of spiritual values. She does not wish to sacrifice her feminine earth values in the course of her transformation. Nonetheless, her upwards growth toward the light of spiritual illumination prompts her to Dar el salto tirando de la tierra y juntarla con el cielo (Conde, 1967, 278).

Rilke (1963, 77) in his "Ninth Elegy" captures exactly this sense of the powerful drive toward transforma­ tion which exists in the feminine earth archetype:

Earth, isn't this what you want: an invisible re-arising in us? Is it not your dream to be one day invisible? Earth! invisible! What is your urgent command, if not transformation? Earth, you darling, I will! Oh, believe me, you need your Springs no longer to win me: a single one, just one, is already more than my blood can endure. It is this transformation culminating in the attain­ ment of psychic wholeness, which will permit the poet to see herself as "ramos / de mis flores m^s preclaras." Years later in Derribado arcSngel (19601., she comments upon the outcome of that transformation, "La gozosa gracia de saberme lograda" (Conde, 1967, 692). But here again we must note that the process begins with "tanta misi6n oscura" beneath the earth. "Earth, isn't that what you want . . .?," even when the fruits of the stars hang temptingly from the heavens.

For woman, comments Neumann (1963, 31), the essen­ tial elements of transformation are the "blood-transformation mysteries that lead her to the experience of her own 63 creativity . . . ." In the poetry of Carmen Conde these blood-transformation mysteries are an integral part of the

configuration of earth symbolism related on the one hand to the natural rising of the sap and on the other to the nourishing water of the river system. Tanta misi6n oscura debajo de la tierra cuando del aire penden los frutos de los astros, Es la plenitud del mundo la que me siento, y mla es la gozosa gracia de saberme lograda mejor que entre la tierra, o en al aire, captando el derecho a ser yo cuando perfecta forma (.Conde, 1967, 692). In "Sino," however, this "plenitud del mundo"

remains unexperienced. The poet identifies with the root of the tree, dark in the earth and burgeoning with growth. She must rise "hacia el Smbito del vuelo." She would move

in the breeze, and with her branches form a harbor for

birds. Planks made from her wood would be the deck of a ship. She hopes that the cells of the tree, the vasos Cline 18), will be overflowing with her cuerpo (line 19) and her esencia Cline 19) , the sap or life-force which rises from the chthonic earth. In each case, puerto Cline 17) , navto (line 18) and vaso (.line 18), we are dealing with the image of a container» If in the process of her transforma­ tion, she becomes at once the container and the contained, she will have succeeded in transcending the duality of life.

Accordingly the last strophe is a plea. If she cannot be the column that unites earth and sky, 64 tener entre mis manos cielo y suelo, vibrar columna entre los dos ... CConde, 1967, 278).

The plea remains unfinished. We are left in

suspense about whether we are dealing with "si no" or

"sino." Addressing God, she begs that the root be allowed

to develop, that it not be "raiz, s6lo ralz; ralz hincada" (Conde, 1967, 278).

The tree which functions symbolically as the pillar uniting heaven and earth is the Cosmic Tree. "Because a tree has a long, vertical shape, the centre-of-the-world symbolism is expressed in terms of a world-axis" (Cirlot, 1962, s.v. "tree"). It is the notion of the world-^axis that bestows upon the tree its role as the center of the cosmos. "Clearly, the tree can only be the axis linking

the three worlds [the underworld, the earth and heavenj if it stands in the centre of the cosmos they constitute" (Cirlot, 1962, s.v. "tree"). Inasmuch as Carmen Conde on

several occasions has chosen the tree as a symbol for her­ self and her life work, it is worthwhile examining in

greater detail some of the beliefs that have come to be associated with the symbolism of the tree.

Eliade notes that a number of religious ideas pertain to the symbolism of the World Tree. Among other

things it has come to stand for the continual regeneration of the universe, because as symbol of the center of the cosmos, it is the receptacle of the celestial sacred. 65 . . . in a number of archaic traditions the Cosmic Tree, expressing the sacrality of the world, its futility and perenniality, is related to the ideas of creation, fecundity, and initiation, and finally to the idea of absolute reality and immortality. Thus the World Tree becomes a Tree of Life and Immortality as well (Eliade, 1972, 271).

At this juncture we must note that in both "Sino" and "Autobiografla" the idea either of fate or destiny is

woven into the poetic fabric. In the former the notion is

implicit in the title. In the latter the seasons of the

fruit tree become the "aspas de mi destino" (Conde, 1967, 183).

Carmen Conde's idea of fate, however, is quite

distinct. As expressed in the poem "Sino," it is the "direcci6n viviente," the "I6gica orgSnica," which governs the unfolding of each phase of the tree's development. In the poet, this same unconscious directive prescribes a

course of spiritual transformation which will develop naturally, like the tree, unless that process is interfered with by a higher power. In "Autobiografla" the tree becomes the windmill whose revolving arms are a wheel of fortune, "aspas de mi destino." Each turn of the wheel, each season of the fruit tree represents a period of creative effort, "afcin de realizar el propio destino" (Conde, 1949, 83).

In Creative Mythology Joseph Campbell analyzes the different points of view about the idea of destiny in Occidental culture and pinpoints the problems these con­ flicting views have created for Western man. In speaking 66 of destiny Campbell prefers the old Anglo-Saxon word wyrd.

This word he sees as deriving from the Norns of Germanic myth, goddesses who lived by Urth's well and watered the roots of the World Ash. In Norse mythology there was only one such personification of fate, called Urth, related to wurd in Old High German, and finally to wyrd in Anglo-Saxon. Campbell (1973, 121] sees a further linguistic relation to the Old High German wart, wirtel, meaning "spindel, . . . by which the idea is suggested of a spinning and weaving of destiny."

Campbell CL973, 13 9) points out the difficulties man has had in attempting to reconcile the idea of fate with that of free will:

Alike in Islam and Christendom, theologians and philosophers, in their efforts to abide by the ground rules of all biblically based mythologizing, give credit simultaneously to God's foreknowledge and to man's free will as the ultimate cause of fate, and have thus tied them­ selves into knots as picturesque as any in a mariner's handbook .... The Arabic term kismet can be rendered as "lot, distribution, fate." It reveals the idea of a universe in which man's fate is decreed by the will of an omnipotent god, whose decisions will not be swayed by the will of the individual. In official Christian writing Campbell en^ counters a similar doctrine, yet he notices that in the popular literature of each culture there appears to be an awareness of the basic difference implied by the two terms 67 kismet and wyrd. In Europe it is the concept of wyrd which dominates:

. . . throughout the literature of Europe's hero- deeds the experience communicated is on the side rather of wyrd than kismet: not surrender to the invincible force of an outside determinant, but the sense of an inward potentiality in the process of becoming, with, however, an approaching inevitable end (Campbell, 1973, 139).

Thus, as Carmen Conde has observed, western man

responds to the "afSn de realizar el propio destino" (Conde,

1949, 83). "La historia de la Europa occidental realiza *- voluntariamente su sino; la historia india acepta el suyo con resignaci6n" (Conde, 1949, 84). The idea of wyrd, of destiny altered by man's effort, of "a life responsible to itself," is, Campbell (1973, 480) tells us, uniquely European. To it he credits the greatest achievements of Western Civilization, the realization of the individual and the development of what he terms "creative mythology," for in our era each man has become the seeker of his own myths. "The mythogenetic zone today is the individual in contact with his own interior life, communicating through his art with those out there" (Campbell, 1973, 93).

Carmen Conde's views about human destiny bridge two important concepts. In defining sino as a living force that directs man from within, she touches on Jung's theory of the unconscious. "We call the unconscious 'nothing,' and yet it is a reality in potentia. The thought we shall think, the deed we shall do, even the fate we shall lament 68 tomorrow, all lie unconscious in our today" (Jung, 1968b, 279). In seeing destiny as the creative life man forges for himself at the urgings of the unconscious, Carmen Conde incorporates into her thinking that trend in Western thought which Campbell sees embraced by the sense of the old Germanic wyrd. Fate is the impulse which causes the unfolding of life in the plant and seizes hold of the poet causing her to write. Sino and destino are twin concepts, the two halves of a continuous process which sees the archetype emerge into symbol, the poem acquire concrete form and the poet dedicate her life to the expression of the inner message. CHAPTER 4

THE ARCHANGEL AND THE POETIC PROCESS

Carmen Conde defines herself first as a poet and secondly as a woman, although it is clear at all times that her poetic world is raised upon the structure of the archetypal feminine. To comprehend in its entirety the self-image cast in her writing we must scrutinize those poems which deal with the creative act. The genesis of the poem is closely related to the attention the poet pays to the creative unconscious. This province is dominated by a special voice and by the figure of a spiritual guide, the Archangel. Through his sage counsel we come to realize that for Carmen Conde the way of poetry also comprehends the way of spiritual transformation. In the following pages we shall observe how Carmen Conde defines the poetic process and how she sees herself in relation to it.

In "Barca" we have a nocturnal scene. Si. Remaremos juntos esta noche de diez noches para buscar la aurora. Si os preguntan;

Iremos sin hablar, cenidos de mar consciente; y en la sombra mSs pura y prieta nuestras voces se abrirSn luz.

69 70 No rechac^is mi companfa, navegantes en cuyas cartas no pintaron mi isla. Ser§ leve, dtictil, pues quiero merecer el olvido CConde, 1967, 178).

We are dealing with a dream configuration in which the poet is one of a series of travellers crossing a night sea. Within this context the mythological motif of the hero's journey to the underworld is apparent. On another level the poem has meaning as a symbolic rendering of the functioning of psychic processes.

The little party searches for dawn, for a light in the darkness. The sea of life on which they travel is obscure, but the understanding they would secure will not be found until they have penetrated the darkest shadow.

Like Dante at Virgil's side descending the terraces of Hell, the poet feels strange and realizes that she does not resemble her ghostly companions r "los enlutados." Conse^ quently, she anticipates that the others will be asked who she is and tells them, "Decid: Es una sonadora que se invent6 su frente" CConde, 1967, 178). She is a dreamer whose mind invented her for itself.

The travellers proceed in silence across the waters of the unconscious. Of the orientation of the voyage

Campbell C1956, 29) says: The passage of the mythological hero may be over-ground, incidentally; fundamentally it is inward—into depths where obscure resistances are overcome, and long lost, forgotten powers are revivified, to be made available for the transfiguration of the world. 71 Mythology offers many parallel voyages. Aeneas journeyed to the underworld, overcoming numerous obstacles,

to converse with the shade of his father from whom he learned the destiny of Rome, the city he was to found (Campbell, 1956, 30). The twelfth and last labor of the Greek hero Hercules took him to the underworld, "to bring Cerberus, the three-headed dog, up from Hades" (Hamilton,

1969, 165). We might also consider the Mesopotamian hero Gilgamesh, who set out to find the watercress of immortality which was growing at the bottom of the sea (Campbell, 1956,

185-87). This inner orientation of the hero's journey would seem to accord with that of "Barca," for it is "en la sombra mSs pura y prieta" (Conde, 1967, 178), in the portion of the unconscious which is most remote, that the

travellers will discover what they have been looking for,

and "nuestras voces se abrir^n luz" (Conde, 1967, 178). This statement recalls Conde's (1949, 74) remark that "Todo trabajo en la tierra ha de ser de alumbramiento." Woman's most difficult task is childbirth, whether physical or metaphorical. The discovery of the treasures of the unconscious implies raising them into consciousness, in this case through the light created by the human voice. In many poems palabra, the word, functions as the vehicle to consciousness. The sea, describing itself to the doubting suicide on the rock of Ifach says "hay una profunda 72 silenciosa oscuridad para que tu voz la recorra alumbrSndonos de palabras" (Conde, 1967, 173).

In the last paragraph the poet again addresses her companions begging them not to reject her. Her companions journey to a final resting place, but she is only a sleeper. They do not have her island, her destination on their maps. Nevertheless, as a poet and an explorer of uncharted waters, she is eager to make the journey. Accordingly she promises to be worthy of oblivion, the loss of ego in an unconscious journey which can ultimately assist her in her creative task. "Sobrecogido por su propio misterio, el Poeta sabe mSs que nadie en la tierra. Para evidenciarlo, s6lo tiene que escribir. Coger la pluma ... Abandonarse" (Conde, 1950, 287), In "AfirmaciSn" Carmen Conde describes the origin of the poem,

Sabedlo todos, cantores y danzoras de la eterna mfisica.

Antes que los iniciados vinieran a mi oldo, ya sabla yo, porque me la habla dicho mi sangre, la danza firme que muestra a la poesla sus ritmos. Antes que la tierra empezara a ofrecerme tumbas, ya sab£a yo a que sabe la tierra. Antes que el ensueno fuera ser posible, ya conocia yo su ser fatal dentro de mi corazSn. Decldselo a Dios si con El hablSis. Nada tienen nuevo que ofrecerme, porque todas sus criaturas vinieron conmigo a la vida (Conde, 1967, 175). 73 Poetry is an art, a rite, "la eterna mtasica, " practiced by a group of initiates, the "cantores y danzoras." These singers and dancers in all probability bear some relation to the Maenads, the madwomen who participated in the worship of Dionysus. Of their plight Hamilton (1969, 56) remarks:

The God of Wine could be kind and beneficent. He could also be cruel and drive men on to frightful deeds. Often he made them mad. The MAENADS or BACCHANTES, as they were also called, were women frenzied with wine. They rushed through woods and over mountains uttering sharp cries, waving pine-cone-tipped wands, swept away in a fierce ecstasy. The wine-induced inspiration of the bacchantes is experienced spontaneously by the true poet who garners the skills of her craft from within where they flow in her blood. The circula­ tion of poetic imagery is like the life cycle governed by the Great Mother who takes back to herself what she creates. Without dying the poet knows "a quS sabe la tierra," and she can justly claim that "todas sus criaturas vinieron conmigo a la vida" CConde, 1967, 175)_. It is evident that for Carmen Conde poets are born. Poetry is a matter of hearing the inner music. Among the other images that circulate within are her paisajes, which subsequently appear in association with geographically veridical places such as "Campos de Ja^n."

Cuando los montes sub£an dandose a mi abrazo moldeador, el paisaje manaba de m£. Corri^ndolos, yo tiraba de olivos, de aguas mellizas, de aves, y la prisa de ellos todos florecla mi espalda de frutillos CConde, 1967, 178). 74 What, in fact, she is describing is the art of poetic creation. These are the hills which rise from within and

through her embrace, her craftsmanship, flow from her in the form of paisaje. She is the creator of her own

landscape. When, on the contrary, the flow of self- expression is dammed up, she remarks in "Viaje," "... yo soy pobre de sonidos, soy pobre de mtasica. La cabeza

sonora de paisajes que llevaba en la ventura se me cort6 dentro de aquella agua rubia ..." CConde, 1967, 17). The word paisaje considered as a synonym for poesla is the key to understanding a poem Carmen Conde has called

"Paisaje.11

Esta voz es, exactamente, mi voz. Para m£ es paseo de chopos dorados en otonoy de cipreses en primavera. Tiene agua ligera y una densidad tan apretada y caliente, que se empafia el alma que hay suya en mi alma, igual que el vaso claro con el agua frla. Tiene noche con desolado misterio y ajnanecer de unanimidad tSctil. Refleja los tonos ardorosos del Poniente y es m&gico compels de los astros en una eternidad de sol.

Cuando la oigo ajena, entera me recorre, devolviSndome una copiosa vida consciente. Y si mla, ja quS celeste azul me lleva su vertigo! Aunque me enganare, creeria en ella.

S6lo en la vida se halla un rostro que es la suma de todos los paisajes. Y una voz que es por si toda la gracia del sonido (Conde, 1967, 169). Here the poetic process is likened to the condensa­ tion which on a warm day forms on the outside of a glass containing cold water. The glass, the container of 75 inspiration is compared to her soul, in relation to which image it is illuminating to note Zimmer's (1972, 34) mention of the worship of water in India :

. . . to this day, one of the most common and simple objects of worship in the daily ritual is a jar or pitcher filled with water, representing the presence of the divinity and serving in the place of a sacred image.

In "Paisaje" the poet herself is the transparent container of this divine essence which condenses into her poems. The poem, although entitled "Paisaje," is about a voice, a special voice which she calls "exactamente, mi voz."

She then enumerates the qualities pertaining to the voice.

It is an instrument capable of creating an entire universe.

It contains night and day, fall and spring, the flow of time as well as eternity. It is "the presence of the divinity," the same voice of which she says in Mi libro de El Escorial,

"me decla cosas de imposible traducci6n dentro de la sangre" (Conde, 1949, 135). It has the power to bring her, as we say, to her senses when she is in a state of reverie. By the same token it can carry her away from herself in ecstatic rapture. "jA qu§ celeste azul me lleva su vertigo!" (Conde, 1967, 169). This inner voice has about it the quality of the numinous, that term coined by Otto (1973, 6) to express "the 'holy' minus its moral factor . . . and minus its 'rational' aspect altogether." This sense of awe

11. From the Latin numen "divine will" or "divinity," 76 characterizes the moment of poetic creation. "Not only i_s the creative situation numinous; it is also experienced as such, for all existence was originally shaped by experience of the transpersonal" (Neumann, 1971, 84). It is this god­

like quality of the voice which makes it "toda la gracia del sonido."

In another poem Carmen Conde refers to the voice that molds her poetic landscape as intuition.

"Intuicion" Hay una voz en suerios que me dirige hasta inundarme con sus mandatos. La realidad no cede a mi vigilia con esa dulce voz que viene el sueno. jLa voz que acuna mis suavidades! Ella me arranca mtisica noble, me libra heroica de la amargura. Es un camino, una gran mano que abre mi alma y se la lleva (Conde, 1967, 262). Traditionally the intuitive capacity of the woman has been considered superior to that of the man (Jung, 1966b, 188). The voice which speaks to Carmen Conde does so in a manner which is so intense that she experiences a sort of rapture. Jung (1968b, 282) defines intuition as "perception via the unconscious." Carmen Conde is flooded by the voice. She keeps vigil awaiting it, nor is her communion with it interrupted by the arrival of sleep. It is the source of

12. Elliptical use of con la que. Similar poetic usage, "morlas por las mismas cosas que yo me muero," occurs in the poem, "Elegia ante un retrato de mi infancia" by Rafael Montesinos (Sainz de Robles, 1964, 2143). 77 her mflsica, her poetry and the cradle in which the poetic

image grows from intuition to form, "jLa voz que acuna mis suavidades!" (Conde, 1967, 262). She calls it a "camino," the road travelled to self-realization. It is also a great hand which opens her soul and carries it off, or, in other words, carries her out of herself. This act represents the genesis of the numinous creative situation.

In "Origen," greater emphasis is placed on the act of creation which comes about as a consequence of the voice.

"Origen" Dios estci en lo hondo. Es un agua despierta al final de la columna hueca del pozo. Me brizo en su mirada, en el frescor que sube por su cilindro de brisas, un aroma de granados y de espigas calxentes. La voz de Dios resuena sacada por mis brazos. Lo vuelve a crear todo; jhasta el alma que llevo El la vuelve a nombrar! Entonces suena el pozo en su tubo de 6rgano, prendi^ndose a mi oldo un susurro del cielo. No olvido que hay monedas de agua con un rostro que tiene cordilleras y mares y volcanes, en medio de los coros de arcSngeles cantores que velan por mi esplritu y cantan por mi voz. Afuera de mis ojos transcurrirSn los seres, en torno de mi cuello se raoverSn las sombras. IQu§ soledad tan llena de gran sabiduria la que me inclina a solas, en silencio sagrado! Dios late de mis ojos, recostando su Verbo en esta voz tan Sspera con que quiso transir al alma que lo vela como a un hijo la sangre (Conde, 1967, 265).

Here Carmen Conde draws a comparison between the idea of God as creator and herself as creator of poems. God is at the bottom of a well. He is, in other words, the creative aspect of the unconscious. 78 Dios estS en lo hondo. Es un agua despierta al final de la columna hueca del pozo (Conde, 1967, 265).

God is a spring of flowing water. The well is pictured as hollow column which places the symbolic associa­ tions usually grouped with columns in a different context.

Columns traditionally adorn the porticos of temples or churches helping to support the structure of the house of worship. This column represents an inversion of the usual column. By virtue of its association with pozo, it bores into the earth, sinking down to the dark, unknown, undiffer­ entiated strata where the mysterious waters flow. Rather than solid, it is hollow, and its functional purpose is not supportive, but has something in common with the passageway or mine shaft. It leads to the treasure which God as the

Archetypal Creator here represents. Indeed, the poet would seem to be speaking at once of an external visible well and a metaphorical, internal well at the bottom of which lie unredeemed, undifferentiated creative resources which by their very potential partake of the qualities of the divine. The poet rejoices in the contact which transpires via the pozo. Me brizo en su mirada, en el frescor que sube por su cilindro de brisas, un aroma de granados y de espigas calientes (Conde, 1967, 265).

Brizar, meaning to rock in a cradle, suggests that the poet sways as she leans over the edge of the well to peer into its depths. "In early Greek," comments Edmund Carpenter, "'to look at' meant to breathe at; 'perceiving' meant taking in" (Carpenter, 1970, quoted from "Eye Beam" unpaginated). From the well, God's creative essence floats up and a moist freshness envelops her. The well becomes a "cilindro de brisas," suggesting God's breath. In per­ ceiving this creative essence, the poet absorbs it. Carpenter continues, "In the tribal world, the most powerful force radiating from any being is believed to be breath, which is regarded as life itself" (Carpenter, 1970, quoted from "Breath"). This powerful force is seen in some areas as having a definite connection with poetry. "In Eskimo the word to make poetry is the word to breathe; both are derivatives of anerca, the soul, that which is eternal: the breath of life. A poem is words infused with breath or spirit" (Carpenter, 1970, quoted from "Breath"). In "Origen" we can see the movement of air as playing a fecundating role, whose outcome is prefigured in the odor of the pomegranate tree, the fruit of which contains many seeds like the head of the stalk of wheat. Both thus symbolize the bounty which the earth may produce, the harvest that results from the fecund seed (Ferguson, 1959, 19, 21). The raising of water from the well is an act symbolic of creation. The still waters are disturbed, and the voice of God speaks to the poet from the depths of the 80 well. In this context speaking is naming and naming is equivalent to creating.

La voz de Dios resuena sacada por mis brazos. Lo vuelve a crear todo; ihasta el alma que llevo El la vuelve a nombrar! Entonces suena el pozo en su tubo de 6rgano, prendi^ndose a mi oido un susurro del cielo (Conde, 1967, 265).

With this naming, the well becomes an organ pipe that imparts to the poet secrets of creation, "un susurro del cielo."

No olvido que hay monedas de agua con un rostro que tiene cordilleras y mares y volcanes, en medio de los coros de arcangeles cantores que velan por mi esplritu y cantan por mi voz CConde, 1967, 265).

The image of "moneda de agua" suggests the water of the well reflecting its surroundings, round like a coin stamped with mountains and seas and volcanos, containing a perfect microcosm, a reduced image of the larger world. God is the sovereign whose face, his creation, the coin bears. Yet the term "moneda de agua" also evokes the idea of a liquid currency, which stirs within the unconscious of the poet. Though archangels may watch over her and speak through her voice, the symbols springing from the microcosm, the inner world, are her basic means of exchange. To this inner source she must stay attuned. People will pass by her, not entering the range of her vision. Their shadows will move around her as she leans over the wall, intent upon the message within. 81 iQu§ soledad tan llena de gran sabiduria la que me inclina a solas, en silencio sagrado! CConde, 1967, 265).

Hers is a sacred communion with the Godhead. She is overcome with ecstasy, as she listens to the voice in the well.

Dios late de mis ojos, recostando su Verbo en esta voz tan cispera con que quiso transir al alma que lo vela como a un hijo la sangre CConde, 1967, 265).

It is a moment of numinous exchange. She is in a sense possessed. God emanates from her eyes, the verb latir indicating, as we have suggested before, a high charge of libidinal energy. The powers of creation and inspiration, Verbo, the moving force, reside in the rough voice that speaks from the well, overcoming the soul, the poet who keeps watch with maternal tenderness. She is as dedicated to the creation of her pen as a parent is to a child, and her poems are a direct consequence of her communion with the voice. The "voz en suerios que me dirige" CConde, 1967, 262), is clearly related to another figure whose larger- than-life presence dominates the nocturnal activities of her psyche. "... yo vivo la noche sin sueno del diSlogo con el Arccingel" CConde, 1967, 219). The archangel in this context would appear to be associated with the Archangel

Gabriel of whom Davidson C1967, s.v. "Gabriel") says: . , . one of the 2 highest-ranking angels in Judaeo-Christian and Mohammedan religious lore: 82 He is the angel of annunciation, resurrection, mercy, vengeance, death, revelation.

Conde (1967, 219) stresses his role as angel of annunciation:

Sin El, ic6mo habrla conocido Maria que un dios se movla en su virginidad? Dios necesit6 la voz del ArcSngel para venir al mundo, y se precedio de ella como de una gran lumbre, de un caliente golpe de azahar. His missives to her, however, are all concerned with the art of poetry and the problems a poet will face living a life devoted exclusively to the practice of his art.

The figure of the Archangel, we believe, represents a manifestation of that archetype pertaining exclusively to

the feminine psyche which Jung has named the Animus. Whereas the old science was almost exclusively a field in which only the man's unconscious could project itself, the new psychology had to acknowl­ edge the existence of an autonomous female psyche as well. Here the case is reversed, and a feminine consciousness confronts a masculine personification of the unconscious, which can no longer be called anima but animus (Jung, 1968b, 176). Jung explains the origin of this masculine personifi­ cation of the unconscious in the following way. The sex of a child is determined by a predominance of either male or female genes. But the smaller group of genes representing the opposite sex does not vanish from the child's make-up.

A man therefore has in him a feminine side, an unconscious feminine figure—a fact of which he is generally quite unaware. I may take as 83 known that I have called this figure the "anima," and its counterpart in a woman the "animus" (Jung, 1968b, 284).

The principal function of the animus figure is to serve as a mediator between the conscious and the un­ conscious (Jung, 1968b, 197). Thus we can see what an important role the Archangel plays in the creative process which is so vital to Carmen Conde1s art. Since the un­ conscious represents a repository of myth, motif, and archetypal pattern, which when properly interpreted, may be transformed into the symbolic images of her poems, she must have a right relation to the Archangel to tap the resources of the unconscious. Regarding the mediating function of the animus figure, it is interesting to note

Jung's observation that in dreams the animus may be repre­ sented simply by an invisible and authoritative voice, the "voz que en suenos me dirige." When it dispenses advice, it represents the archetype of the Wise Old Man, but it may also take the form of a young boy. "In women he corresponds to the so-called 'positive' animus who indicates the possi­ bility of conscious spiritual effort" (Jung, 1968b, 214).

The Archangel of Carmen Conde would seem to represent a composite of these different roles. At times he assumes the role of the Wise Old Man who guides her in her poetic ideas, but his first appearance is as a beautiful horse, a symbol highly charged with sexual connotations, who would lie witl-i her, thus impregnating her with artistic potential. 84 Y vino para mi espalda un jadeo de establos mSgicos: me sorprendl entre largos cabellos que olian a heno fresco y a campanillas silvestres (Conde, 1967, 221).

Finally, we should like to observe that in analyzing

the role of the animus, Jung (1968b, 317) comments that the sphere personified by the animus for the woman is the upper

realm, the realm of the spirit. Thus, that the personifica­ tion of the animus in the poetry of Carmen Conde should take the form of the Archangel is not surprising. The figures of

angels and archangels have themselves long been identified with archetypal contents of the unconscious.

The idea of angels, archangels, 'principalities and powers in St. Paul, the archons of the Gnostios, the heavenly hierarchy of Dionysius the Areopagite, all come from the perception of the relative autonomy of the archetypes (Jung, 1966b, 66) .

The insight of the poet is a special gift, a calling which also imposes obligations. Its practice is sacred. It becomes in itself a sort of religion and its way is unique.

The poet travels a road apart fraught with self^scrutiny, a road avoided by the multitude. Not everyone receives nocturnal visits from an archangel. La visita de un Angel es la caricia de la eternidad. La visita del ArcSngel es la orden, la incorporaci6n a un privilegio que cumplir. Hay que estar estremecida, enfervorizada, para verle encender hogueras entre los pSrpados y el sueno (Conde, 1967, 220). The Archangel is the Wise Old Man of her soul. His initial purpose is to deliver a message. He is the bearer 85 of a divine command, but he is also someone with whom she can debate the trials imposed by her art. What at first appears to be a description of the successive stages of mystic ascent (the chapters of El ArcHngel are entitled "Aparici6n," "Alta noche," "TransfiguraciSn," and "Verbo"), evolves into a dialogue about the nature and practice of poetry. Through this conversation we see that poetry is intimately caught up with the development of self and the growth toward psychic wholeness. When the poet complains to the Archangel about her self-imposed solitude, he chastises her.

(C)—jYo no poseo otro bien que mi pensamiento! (A)—cY te quejas? Con §1 podrSs alcanzarte a ti misma.

"Autobiografla," to mention just a few. She herself 8 recognizes the nature of this involvement in "AfirmaciSn,"

where, as we have already observed, she specifically links the world of ensueno to her poetry. "Antes que el ensueno fuera ser posible, ya conocla yo su ser fatal dentro de mi coraz6n" (Conde, 1967, 175). But it is in later books that she more fully elaborates the meaning of ensueno.

Ensueno derives from the Latin insomnium or "sleep­ lessness." It is defined as "sueno o representaciSn fantSstica del que duerme" and "ilusi6n, fantasia" (Diccionario de la lengua espariola, 1970, s.v. "ensueno"). Etymologically it comprehends the concept of wakefulness which in its second meaning distinguishes it from the dream of the sleeper. It is to this waking dream, we believe, thatvCarmen Conde refers. In Mientras los hombres mueren she says, "A los hombres que mueren yo los sigo en su buscar por entre las ralces y los veneros fangosos, pues ellos y yo tenemos igual designio de ensueno debajo de la tierra" (Conde, 1967, 187). ("I follow the men who are dying in their search among the roots and muddy wellsprings for they and I have the same dreamlike plan beneath the earth.") The decaying corpse can, in biological terms, be seen as on a journey back to its origins, and Carmen

Conde1s search within herself is also a search for the archetypes which compose the underlying dynamics of human behavior. The phrase "designio de ensueno" would at first appear to be contradictory. Designio is defined as 87 "pensamiento, o prop6sito del entendimiento, aceptado por la

voluntad" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "designio"), and yet Carmen Conde modifies it by ensueno, a state in which apperceptive consciousness does not dominate

the other mental faculties. When, however, we recall that

Carmen Conde1s definition of fate coincides with Jung's

definition of the unconscious, and when we remember that the poet attributes to sino an internal organic logic, it is not

difficult to comprehend that ensueno may also have a logic of its own, including a design or plan apparent only to

those who concern themselves with the patterns of meaning in the unconscious mind.

In Mio Carmen Conde further elucidates the concept of ensueno.

Tienen que dejarme con mi ensueno, porque es lo mSs seguro que hay en mi. He penado por salvarlo del mundo en que me movi desde que vine al mundo. Y por ello no me acerco a los humildes, a los que no tienen otro remedio que ser humildes (Conde, 1967, 232). The ensueno of which she partakes is not for all. It is her province of the sacred, and because of it she follows a path apart. Her attitude in Mio would seem to be a direct consequence of a discussion which previously took place in El Arcgngel. Here she addresses herself to the time<-honored dialectic of reality vs. fantasy and the Archangel warns her of the dangers of imposing reality upon her dream. 88

—ArcSngel—digo humilde—, yo quiero veneer a la tierra. Me muerde ese afSn las entranas y no reposarg nunca si no la venzo.

—

El ensueno is the land of poets, a magic land which has license to alter sidereal time, which may, like the dream itself, distort and combine the common and ordinary in any fashion. Though the poet may incorporate into his vision any of the raw materials that empirical reality has to offer, to imbue the dream with specific form would be to preclude its fulfillment in any other form, thereby destroy­ ing it. It is also in El Arcgngel that Conde (1967, 223) remarks, upon receiving a sudden intuition, "El mar explicado por el ArcSngel cabe en la caliente urna de mi sostenido ensueno." The urn of her "sostenido ensueno" is both the sacred urn of poetry and the vessel of the

Archetypal Feminine.

If we survey the whole of the symbolic sphere determined by the vessel of the Archetypal Feminine, we find that in its elementary and transformative character the Feminine as "creative principle" encompasses the whole world. This is the totality of nature in its original unity, from which all life arises and unfolds, assuming in its highest transformation, the form of the spirit (Neumann, 1963, 62). 89

Certainly it holds more secrets than those of the sea, for it comprises "the totality of nature in its original unity." It contains rocks, trees, and fruit; the earth itself; the human heart beat and all the fears and aspirations experienced by the poet. Within it, it contains the entire poetic world of Carmen Conde. We can not conclude our discussion of the archangel without some general remarks about the angel figure in

Carmen Conde's poetry. Davidson tells us that according to Church doctrine the exact number of angels in the world was fixed at the time of Creation. Fourteenth-century cabalists determined that the figure in question was 301,655,722

(Davidson, 1967, xviii). While such an extensive number does not put in an appearance in Carmen Conde's poetic world, it is worth noting that there are numerous angels and that we are not dealing with just one figure.

The difference between angels and archangels would appear to be one of degree. The term archangel applies generically to all angels above the grade of (the order of) angels; it also serves to designate a specific rank of angels in the celestial hierarchy (Davidson, 1967, s.v. "archangels"). Davidson (1967, s.v. "archangels") goes on to tell us that the term is also used to designate the great angels, these being the seven angels of the Book of Enoch: Uriel,

Raguel, Michael, Seraquel, Gabriel, Haniel, and Raphael, We have already identified the archangel of El Arcgngel with Gabriel, the angel of the Annunciation. 90 Dionysius in his Mystical Theology and the Celestial

Hierarchy considers the archangels to be "messengers bearing divine decrees" (Davidson, 1967, s.v. "archangels").

Such would also seem to be the role played by the archangels of "Seguridad," where the poet speaks of herself as "una emisaria de lo sagrado eterno" (Conde, 1967, 279). It is the visit of the angel which bestows upon her this special category.

Los Sngeles me quieren, vinieron a mis noches: traj^ronme su mCisica, sus alas y su soplo (Conde, 1967, 279). In another poem the angel is referred to simply as "El enviado" (Conde, 1967, 313). In "Staplica," the archangels are invoked to descend and carry her off.

jVosotros los arcSngeles, oldme; os sigo y reverencio; traspasada soy tierra que os prolonga! Sed el cielo, y unidos descended para llevarme (Conde, 1967, 308),

Of the offices performed by angels Davidson (1967, xvii) tells us:

Angels perform a multiplicity of duties and tasks. Preeminently they serve God. They do this by the ceaseless chanting of glorias as they circle round the holy Throne. They also carry out missions from God to man. But many serve man directly as guardians, counselors, guides, judges, interpreters, cooks, comforters, dragomen, matchmakers, and gravediggers. They are responsive to invocations when such invoca­ tions are properly formulated and the conditions are propitious. 91 The angels which figure in Mujer sin Edgn are generally less friendly. Their function is to administer the Lord's justice. "Siempre tus Sngeles / blandiendo sus espadas" (Conde, 1967, 374). The angel becomes the

instrument of Adam and Eve's banishment. Identifying with Eve she comments, "El Angel y su antorcha me acusaron ..." (Conde, 1967, 375), and in "Respuesta de la mujer," where

she addresses God she says:

Me abandonaste al manzano y la serpiente cerrando el camino de la vida edenica con el Angel, que revuelve mil espadas mordientes con sus lumbres vengadoras (Conde, 1967, 379).

The Angel of the Garden may be identified with Michael, "the warrior angel" who is most often depicted with sword unsheathed (Davidson, 1967, s.v. "Michael"), or perhaps with Raphael, "guardian of the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden" (Davidson, 1967, s.v. "Raphael"). In 1960 Carmen Conde published Derribado arcgngel a reference to the fallen angel which may be interpreted as a metaphor for instinct or libido. The angel is described as a great light.

jOh salvaje presencia deslumbrante; obstinada, confusa pesadumbre de una luz conteni^ndose violenta! (.Conde, 1967, 602).

In this regard Satan is often equated with Lucifer,

whose name means "Light-giver," because of a misreading of Isaiah 14:12 (Davidson, 1967, s.v. "Lucifer"). Carmen Conde 92 further identifies this archangel as the fallen one when she refers to their meeting: "Qu£ hermoso dia / aquel que nos

uni6 en el destierro!" (Conde, 1967, 687). She was banished

from Eden; the archangel from God's sight. But of Satan's

fall we learn:

The Old Testament speaks of an adversary, he-satan. It is a term that stood for an office; it did not denote the name of an angel. To the Jews of Biblical times the adversary was neither evil nor fallen (the Old Testament knows nothing of fallen angels), but a servant of God in good standing, a great angel, perhaps the greatest (Davidson, 19 67, xvi).

Toward this force Carmen Conde demonstrates a notably ambivalent attitude. Her reluctance to refer openly to the fallen angel as a force of evil in all probability rests on an awareness that this view was a late construct

which does not make its appearance until the New Testament. Although she calls this force, which she recognizes as residing within herself, "el Sngel de tentaciSn" (Conde, 1967, 737), at the same time she recognizes the vital

principle involved. Derribado no es vencido, que vencido no te quiero. Derribado, puedes alzarte y recobrarte para embestirme de nuevo. lUna ortigante amenaza, tenaz enemigo en suspenso (Conde, 1967, 722). The tension that comes from a dialectic of opposites is what calls forth the creative energy to bring about the resolution of the conflict. Consequently the poet takes pleasure in identifying with her adversary and even 93 recognizes that he serves for her a useful, if aggravating function.

Vencido tCi, cqu£ serfa de ti y de ml, sin dura contienda ya? I Oh, no vencido: Derribado, si! Ya lo estSs. Eres m£o (Conde, 1967, 722).

The angels and archangels of Carmen Conde's poetry, then, are a numerous host with a variety of functions. We may see them as the messengers of divine decrees and the purveyors of the essence of life. Says Mary in Mujer Sin Ed£n, "Llegado el Angel, / pas6me con su voz al cuerpo intacto" (Conde, 1967, 411). They carry out God's justice implacably, but they also console man in his exile from the garden.

Hombre, mfralos; no estamos solos: Ruedas de arcSngeles girando contemplan nuestros dlas de nostalgia CConde, 1967, 398). Even the fallen angel serves as a personification of one aspect of human nature. Of these different symbolic roles we may designate as most prominent that of the Angel of Annunciation and that of the Angel of Temptation. Both these celestial creatures are intimately involved with the poetic concerns of Carmen Conde.

Before concluding this chapter on the poetic world and its protagonist the poet, we should like to examine three poems which deal specifically with the poetic process, that dynamic which relates the artist to his creation. 94 Throughout this study we have stressed the importance of the unconscious as a reservoir of poetic material. Regarding the spontaneous nature of the activity of the unconscious Jung (,1966b, 185) tells us:

Every creative man knows that spontaneity is the very essence of creative thought. Because the unconscious is not just a reactive mirror- reflection, but an independent, productive activity, its realm of experience is a self- contained world, having its own reality, of which we can only say that it affects us as we affect it—precisely what we say about our experience of the outer world. And just as material objects are the constituent elements of this world, so psychic factors constitute the objects of that other world. These spontaneously acting psychic factors are the archetypes and symbols, the intuitions which come to form the core of the artist's material. Conde (1949., 63) comments on the nature of their perception and incorpora­ tion into the artist's experience in a similar fashion:

Las cosas de mayor gravedad para el alma asaltan subitas, como espontSneas; las ideas parecen nuevas en nosotras, sin ralces, pero al tratarlas nos las hallamos s6lidamente entretejidas con los jugos m^s personales. Lo que, imprevisto al parecer, se nos coloca ante los ojos de la conciencia, es la cima de larga cordillera interior fraguada desde los inicios de nuestra vida. We have seen how both the archangel and her voice came to her at night. In "Umbral del sueno" she comments on the poetic images which occur to her as she is about to drop off to sleep. Temblorosa de mtisicas, £sta es la pasi6n. Movi^ndome la sangre un ensueno sonoro 95 Mientras los tristes ojos lograban que la luz Les revelara hombres con la gloria vestidos. Yo os convoco, juventudes intactas. Yo quisiera mis brazos crecidos, tan grandes que os abarcara mlos, mtasica, luz, espacio. Mlos todos: los muchachos, las ninas, el agua ... Mlo el hombre que se r£e del mundo cavSndose la tumba en el cuerpo que sufre. Ser£ vuestra tierra, la que pisciis riendo. Y ser§ la mar negra que se lleva navlos con marineros locos que derraman la muerte. jPero una amante inmensa, rezuraSndoos vida, §sa seria yo si quisierais oirmel Arrebataros quiero, llevaros con mi espiritu, porque los huesos silban las mis puras sonatas cuando los labios beben soplo de amor en ellos (Conde, 1967, 287). The title of this poem sets the scene. These are the thoughts which filter through the poet's mind as she lingers on the threshold of sleep. Basically this is a poem of self-definition. It states her most profound aspirations at a moment when she is about to relinquish the concerns of daily life and come into intimate contact with the un^- conscious sources of psychic energy, which through the formation of symbols can help her realize those goals. This libidinal energy is "la pasi6n," which she describes as

"temblorosa de mdisicas." It is at once vibrant, alive and by virtue of the word "mtisicas," we know that it is also intimately associated with the creation of poetry. Since she describes it as "temblorosa," we can also infer that it is energy activated, charged with a numinous portent, not dammed up or tranquil, awaiting an electric charge to set it in motion. The second line confirms the thematic relation of the poem to the poetic process. We learn that what moves 96 her blood, maintaining her life, is "un ensueno sonoro."

The word ensueiio has already been tagged as referring specifically to her poetic dream. At this moment of entry into the unconscious her visionless eyes, "los tristes ojos," are suddenly granted a vision, "que la luz / les revelara hombres con la gloria vestidos" (Conde, 1967,

287). In her mind she convokes the youth of the future,

"juventudes intactas." They are the generations for whom the vision of the poet is intended. Once a poet has attained perfection in his art, it is his sacred obliga­ tion not only to maintain the quality of his work, but also to pass on what he has learned. That perfection must come to be the "base de las otras perfecciones venideras: enlazar con las almas j6venes; enraizar en la corteza de la vida para seguir brotando columna limpia de cielo" (Conde, n.d., 28). She looks upon these future generations in an almost motherly way, and in this attitude, we find once more her identification with the archetype of the Eternal Feminine.

Yo quisiera mis brazos crecidos, tan grandes que os abarcara m£os, mfisica, luz, espacio. Mlos todos: los muchachos, las ninas, el agua ... (Conde, 1967, 287). She longs to embrace the raw material of poetry: music, light and space. On another plane she will be the Great Mother in both positive and negative aspects. Her symbols are earth and sea both functioning as adjuncts of 97 the Mother Archetype. In her negative aspect she is death, the devouring mother who takes back to herself her own progeny. She expresses a tacit admiration for the man who laughs at the world, but to her he must return. Mlo el hombre que se rie del mundo cav&ndose la tumba en el cuerpo que sufre.

Y ser§ la mar negra que se lleva navlos con marineros locos que derraman la muerte (Conde, 1967, 287).

Recalling the destruction of the Spanish Civil War, these lines are reminiscent of the following paragraph from

Mientras los hombres mueren, in which the sea is seen as engulfing her fellowman. En la mSs ahondada raiz del mar clavaron mis hermanos sus gritos de terror; ]No queremos morir! —y los ojos haclan mSs azules a los gritos. Y el mar se fue creciendo, monte y monte denso de carne verde con cuellos de alados encajes, hasta que el cielo lo recibi6 posey§ndolo en clamores (Conde, 1967, 188).

If on the one hand she assumes the death mask of the Great Mother baring ghoulish teeth and swallowing up ships, she has on the other a positive aspect, her earth aspect as sustainer of life. "Ser§ vuestra tierra, la que pisSis riendo." She will be a tender, nourishing lover, jPero una amante inmensa, rezum&ndoos vida, 6sa serla yo si quisierais olrme! (Conde, 1967, 287).

The archetype of the Great Mother is presented in its dual aspect and represents a totality of the life experience. 98 Carmen Conde's identification with the principle of the feminine is a source of poetic inspiration so intense that with it she hopes to awaken others to new heights of

awareness. "Arrebataros guiero, llevaros con mi espiritu

.. . 11 (Conde, 1967, 287). They are to be the recipients and

the bearers of her passion, indeed, of her voice. In "Honda

memoria de m£," the poetic voice is seen as an inheritance passed from the poets of one generation to those of the

next. Lo que sigo sonando con ella es acumularla, vigorizarla; y cuando tengamos que desnudarnos no d§ tanto trabajo al que viene con ansia de meterla en su pecho y decir que es mSs suya que hoy mia (Conde, 1967, 365). Her passion, the secret of her passion, is her gift to the poets of the future,

porque los huesos silban las mUs puras sonatas cuando los labios beben soplo de amor en ellos CConde, 1967, 287).

The "soplo de amor" is the breath of creation with

which God infuses life into his creatures. With "la pasi6nf"

the true source of poetic creation, akin to the 11 soplo de amor," the youthful poet will find his way to true expres­

sion, "las mcis puras sonatas." She speaks of the poet metaphorically as "los huesos," because she sees the whole process of poetic creation as an impersonal creative impulse passed from generation to generation. Among those select individuals that carry the word, the bone represents that essential, intrinsic quality, the center, that bears forward the creative urge. It is when that archetypal

impulse is molded by the personality of the poet through whom it erupts, that it emerges into the poem, expressed

through symbols which may have a value both universal and specific for the historic period in which the poet lives. In "Umbral del sueno," on the threshold of a dreamlike encounter with the swirling contents of the unconscious, Carmen Conde wishes to impart to future poets the idea that it is the receptiveness to the archetypal creative forces, to "la pasi6n," that is of greatest importance to the poet in his art.

"Suenos de la enamorada" views the process from the moment of awakening. The dream images are seen as pounding upon the urn of morning, demanding to be admitted to the day and to the activities of the waking hours or, in other words to become a part of consciousness.

Golpeaban la urna de la manana. Mordientes peces venlan para mojarse de playa. Golpeaban contra la arena del viento los pies desnudos del alma. Golpeaban riSndose su locura por la fresca dentellada, 100 y las aves, menos aves, en vez de volar nadaban. Golpeaban ...

Salf a buscarte, amor mio, por si tu sed me llamaba, y me vi sola en el mar desnuda y verde de algas,

golpeSndome los vientos con la furia de sus lavas.

De mi tiraron los peces que hasta entonces golpeaban.

Me llevaron los viajeros de las tierras mSs lejanas. Golpeaban a la luz. A mi pecho se tiraban, enjambres de oscuros sinos que mi sangre destajaban,

golpeSndome a m£ sola porque no les rechazara.

jQu§ firme pisan mis ojos la arena que el mar desata! Urna de voces el d£a siempre tiene su manana, golpeada ... (Conde, 1967, 441, 442). The scene of this dream sequence is a beach, or, in other words a boundary, the boundary that sets off the sea of the unconscious. To this beach come fish, "para mojarse de playa." Concerning the fish Baynes (1940, 790) remarks,

"As the natural denizens of the sea fish symbolize the indigenous contents of the unconscious." The fish is consistently mentioned as a psychic being by Thoreau in his 101 Journal. In the entry of December 12, 1851, he comments,

"I wished to do again . . . things quite congenial to my highest inmost and most sacred nature, to lurk in crystalline thought like the trout under verdurous banks, where stray mankind should only see my bubble come to the surface" (Thoreau, 1949, III, 133). In this reference it is the writer's Self which is compared to the trout. At a later date he comments of Walden, "All the years that I have known Walden these striped breams have skulked in it without my knowledgeJ How many new thoughts, then may I have?" CThoreau, 1949, XI, 351).

Normally the notion of getting wet implies immersion in another element. In Conde's metaphor, "para mojarse de playa," the perspective is reversed. It is not the bather who immerses himself in the sea, rather we see the fish, the psychic entities, seeking to clothe themselves in the essence of the land, to imbue themselves with consciousness. This action represents the archetype searching for the specific symbol which will give it form. Pounding the beach is the barefoot soul of the poet, her innermost self. The foot is that part of the anatomy which comes in direct contact with the earth or in this case with the shifting sands of the beach that borders the un­ conscious. The birds which inhabit this sea shore are really fish, "en vez de volar nadaban." The whole nocturnal sea is 102 held by the urn of morning which can be compared to the urn of Carmen Conde's "sostenido ensueno." Onto the beach ventures the poet herself. Sail a buscarte, amor mlo, por si tu sed me llamaba (Conde, 1967, 441).

Not infrequently the sea is cast in the role of her lover. Alone in the sea she finds herself "desnuda y verde de algas." The effects of the day have been removed as though they were clothing and in the sea she comes into contact with the most primitive of life forms, the algae.

Her immersion in the sea in search of poetic imagery is accompanied by a heightening of psychic energy. The winds are blowing on her, "con la furia de sus lavas." The fish are seen as travellers from distant lands that carry her off. She passes the waters of the personal unconscious to enter the more remote regions of the collective unconscious, repository of the archetypal patterns of myth. There "enjambres de oscuros sinos," the undifferentiated energy of a multitude of different fates pull at her. From these remote waters she returns to the shifting boundary between the unconscious and the conscious, "la arena que el mar desata," at the moment of waking. Thus the day is envisioned as a huge urn holding within the vibrant images from the unconscious which thrust themselves upon the poet at night. 103 "En el principio" examines the dialectic between the conscious and the unconscious as it pertains to the poet's art.

Se suceden las forraas, Un prodigio de luz y de color me habita. En mi alma se mueven grandes mundos que buscan su palabra para llamarse algo y no s61o materia. iNombres quieren los suefios! Mtisica, amarillos y rosa, un cefiro blando son mientras no son fuera de mi. Medito, y la conciencia elude la concreta criatura del llamarles algo. iLucha sin descanso en mi callada ignorancia del llamar perfecto! £Por qu§ los suefios quieren tomar parte del mundo si cuando son presencias sin contorno alivian tanto al alma? Ser donde yo soy, con un nombre: cirbol, libro, calle con musgo en las piedras ... cY lo que es eso mismo, pero no se ve nunca; lo que es el cirbol todo, pero no son las hojas, ni los pSjaros que cantan en sus limites verdes? iQue tortura es llamar! cNo quieren los fantasmas seguir siendo fantasmas? Me poblaria de ellos siempre; aquello que los desnuda para hacerlos cosas me aterra. iUna niebla delgada entre el mundo y mis ojos; un silencio de exactitudes, un cielo sin arcos que sostengan la b6veda de la verdad con nombre fijol Me voy quedando sola en este mundo, porque en el otro crecen mis amigos eternos. Son todos los que antes gimieron por dar nombre al universo Svido que trabaja en mi alma busccindose salida, emergencia concreta. Prefiero sonrelr callada, descalzar mi memoria. A pesar de los llantos oscuros y de que cada noche bajan a mis labios palabras ya maduras que pudieran ser nombres .,. jNo llamar, no cercar, no destruir la eterna sucesi6n de las formas inmersas en la Nada! CConde, 1967, 267, 268).

The title of the poem brings to mind the opening verses of both Genesis and the Gospel according to St. John. 104 The latter seems a more apt reference inasmuch as the poem concerns itself with the creation which takes place through naming. "En el principio existla el Verbo, y el Verbo estaba en Dios, y el Verbo era Dios" (San Juan: 1). Carmen Conde recognizes that creation implies a sort of death. In the giving of a name a limitation is set. A fluid congeals into a solid form, and the potential it had for motion is lost.

Carmen Conde refers to two zones: the world of light and color and sound, the fluid world of hypnagogic imagery associated with the dynamic energy of the unconscious, and the world of palabra, the articulated word, that world we associate with the conscious mind. The selection of the appropriate name for an object is what lends that entity separate being, setting it apart from the surroundings in which it exists. " I ISbmbres quieren los suefios! " Carmen Conde tells us. While they are within her, they are undif­ ferentiated energy, flux itself, endless possibilities. "Mtisica, amarillos y rosa, un cgfiro blando" (Conde, 1967, 267). Yet it is in the very nature of these dreams that they seek to clothe themselves in the concrete forms of the world of palabra. Toward this process within herself, the poet assumes a passive role.

Medito y la conciencia elude la concreta criatura del llamarles algo (Conde, 1967, 267). 105 The poet would have her dreams remain a part of the fluid inner world where they can soothe her soul. When they emerge into the world of palabra, they assume a name which

can never be exact and never reveal the subtleties of mean­

ing that form the total of a potentiality.

Ser donde yo soy, con un nombre: Arbol, libro, calle con musgo en las piedras ... IY lo que es eso mismo, pero no se ve nunca; lo que es el Srbol todo, pero no son las hojas, ni los pSjaros que cantan en sus llmites verdes? CConde, 1967, 267).

The word "tree" does not express the essence of the leaves, although one may think of trees as having some sort of foliage. At one remove further, the word "tree" does not even suggest the birds which may inhabit its branches and may be symbolically the most important thing about a particular tree. Furthermore, the tree does not exist in a vacuum but comprises a portion of the ecological environment in which it grows. Exclaims the poet "]Qu§ tortura es llamar!" In the Duino Elegies, Rilke (1963, 75) also con­ siders the art of naming:

For the wanderer doesn't bring from the mountain slope a handful of earth to the valley, untellable earth, but only some word he has won, a pure word, the yellow and blud gentian. Are we, perhaps, here just for saying: House, Bridge, Fountain, Gate, Jug, Olive tree, Window,—possibly: Pillar, • Tower? . . , but for saying, remember oh, for such saying as never the things themselves hoped so intensely to be. Rilke is not concerned with the limitations set by words. Rather he sees the naming of things, the writing of 106 poems, the word, as that which makes man's fleeting life meaningful.

Praise the world to the Angel, not the untellable: you can't impress him with the splendour you've felt; in the cosmos where he more feelingly feels you're only a tyro. So show him some simple thing, remoulded by age after age, till it lives in our hands and eyes as a part of ourselves. Tell him things. He'll stand more astonished; as you did beside the roper in Rome or the potter in Egypt CRilke, 1963, 75, 77).

Carmen Conde in "En el principio" is more concerned with the nature of articulation, with which "things" to name, and in how the poet is to deal with an impulse so strong that it seems to possess her. From the chambers of the inner world, the ghostlike dwellers autonomously depart.

Despite the "niebla delgada" which obscures the clarity of form, one poetic intuition after another crosses the barrier into the world of palabra. Their departure leaves the inner world momentarily impoverished. Me voy quedando sola en este mundo, porque en el otro crecen mis ainigos eternos (Conde, 1967, 267).

In discussing "En el principio," we must bear in mind Jung's (.1968b, 101) comment that "The artist is not a person endowed with a free will who seeks his own ends, but one who allows art to realize its purposes through him." Carmen Conde's "fantasmas" moan like a woman

laboring to give birth. They struggle to encounter the word from the world of palabra that will describe the inner region of her soul. When found, the word forms a bridge 107 joining for a moment the inner and the outer worlds, pro­ viding a salida for the "fantasmas," concentrations of feeling or energy, that flee into "emergencia concreta." The poet protests that she would as soon not be host to such escapes. She would rather remain "callada,"

"descalzar la memoria," undress memory and let it rest.

Without the symbolic contents afforded by memory, whether they come from the unconscious or from daily reality, it is.more difficult for the inner dwellers to find an exit. But their repression results in "llantos oscuros," and each night "palabras ya maduras," ripe like fruit, fall to her lips. In "En el principio" Carmen Conde describes herself as a producer of images and symbols, as a creator of words. She is a passive party to this process. It happens with or without her consent. In the last lines she proclaims her­ self to be a worshipper of the source. jNo llamar, no cercar, no destruir la eterna sucesi6n de las forntas inmersas en la NadaJ (Conde, 1967, 268).

She rejoices in the flow of undifferentiated energy, in forms immersed, not yet visible. To name them, to create them thereby lifting them from the flux, is to destroy them, and yet her own poem is testimony to the fact that the process operates on its own energy. It is a natural function of the unconscious to form symbols, thereby concentrating 108 instinctual psychic energy in specific form whether that form be a poem or a representation of one of the other arts.

The energy which spurs the process of naming in "En el principio," is the same which on a different level circulates through all of the poetic world. We have examined in that world the predominance of the earth with its associated vegetative symbolism and the many different varieties of water symbolism, both of which stress an environment permeated with the essence of the Eternal Feminine. We have seen the poet as the protagonist of that environment identify herself as the prime mover of the poetic world. Within that context we have observed how she defines destiny as a channeling of the forces of unconscious energy into a meaningful relationship with the surrounding world, a relationship which in her case is totally involved with the writing of poems. Finally we have observed how the creative process devolves upon a reciprocal relation between the conscious and the unconscious parts of the psyche, and how in this way the search for the poetic image comes to parallel the search for spiritual values. PART II

WOMAN'S DILEMMA

109 CHAPTER 5

THE FALL: MUJER SIN EDEN

In the preceding chapters we have seen that Carmen Conde created a poetic world permeated by the essence of what has been termed the archetype of the Eternal Feminine.

As protagonist of that world she defines herself first and foremost as a woman who is a poet. Our examination of her self-definition would, however, be incomplete if we did not consider the way she sees herself in relation to man.

In studying the manner in which the poet defines herself, Segnitz and Rainey (1973, 18) found that "the woman poet's chief confrontation is with a masculine consciousness which has become synonymous with the human consciousness." Jung perceived the same problem in his essay, "Woman in Europe." . . . there is no problem of "woman in Europe" with­ out man and his world. If she is married, she usually has to depend economically on her husband; if she is unmarried and earning a living, she is working in some profession designed by a man. Unless she is prepared to sacrifice her whole erotic life, she again stands in some essential relation­ ship to man. In numerous ways woman is indis- solubly bound up with man's world and is therefore just as exposed as he is to all the shocks of his world (Jung, 1970, 116).

The boundaries of woman's world, then, are blurred with those of the man's world, and it is through a

110 Ill confrontation with this male world that she must come to terms with the problem of her own identity. Into the male predominance of the western world enter both social mores and religious concepts. Before examining the poems of Carmen Conde which deal with this problem, however, we should like to include a theoretical discussion of the way the masculine and feminine principles function in relation to each other.

As we have previously seen, the feminine principle is commonly referred to as Eros, which name confers the idea of psychic relatedness.

The central principle of life which woman serves is Eros, the principle of relatedness and receptivity; the principle of love, not simply in its instinctual biological aspect but in its deeper meaning. It is this principle which leads woman to understand and nurture all potentials of life, both personal and impersonal. This principle also gives to woman a deep instinctual contact with what may be called earth wisdom, an intuitive perception of truths relating to human experience, truths which seem to rise to her consciousness without the process of logical thought. This wisdom is like the matrix—the mother lode containing the precious ore (Wickes, 1948, 103).

While in woman it is the conscious personality which is under the rule of Eros, in the socially conventional man this principle manifests itself in the unconscious (Harding, 1971, 29). Since the feminine principle can operate in a negative as well as a positive fashion, it becomes woman's ideal task to stand between the forces of Eros within her and the world without, humanizing the negative aspects of 112 the feminine principle (Harding, 1971, 36). She is able to perform this task only by attaining a right relation to the feminine principle within her. When she has achieved this relationship, she will have gained access to a value which transcends her purely personal ambition and aspirations

(Harding, 1971, 34). For modern woman the achieving of such a relationship means submitting to her own instinctual side, "recognizing it not just as an intellectual concept but in fact, as a determining influence in her whole life . . ." (Harding, 1971, 145). Woman experiences her transformative character in herself through the mysteries of pregnancy and the rearing of children. Yet for that very reason woman's transformation is intimately bound up with what Neumann (1963, 31) calls "the problem of the thou relationship." On the contrary, a man achieves relation­ ship with the feminine principle through the figure of the Anima, that representative of the feminine qualities of his own unconscious (Wick.es, 1948, 102). Consequently, the proper integration of the feminine principle is of equal importance for the members of both sexes.

JTheJ sources of spiritual or psychological energy can only be reached, or so the myths and ancient religions say, through a right approach to the feminine essence of nature, whether this functions in inanimate form or in women them­ selves. It is therefore of the greatest importance that we seek to establish once more a better rela-r tionship to the feminine principle (Harding, 1971, 30). 113 For a woman the process of finding herself takes place first through her realizing a constructive relation­ ship with the feminine principle, but this represents only one-half of her task. If she is to achieve psychic whole­ ness she must also develop the unconscious masculine attributes of her personality, "so that she may increasingly bring about an harmonious balance between the opposing elements within herself, a union of her masculine and feminine qualities" (Wickes, 1948, 103).

The masculine principle which stands in opposition to Eros is generally termed Logos. It is the psychic principle which governs the conscious side of a man's personality. It is a man's first business to find his goal, his chosen work, to concentrate upon it in order to make his place in the world of men. In finding his goal, he relates himself to the essential masculine principle, the Logos. Logos means literally "word" ["In the beginning was the word"), i.e., that which creates by understanding, by definition, by differentiation (Wickes, 1948, 89).

In examining the masculine principle, Emma Jung finds that the Greek logos comprehends four attributes which appear in their development to follow a logical sequence. These four stages of the masculine principle she terms the power or will, the deed, the word, and meaning. "This four-sidedness characterizing the logos principle pre­ supposes, as we see, an element of consciousness, because without consciousness neither will, word, deed, nor meaning is conceivable" (E. Jung, 1957, 3). Jung (1970, 123) sums up

the contrast by saying that, "The concept of Eros could be expressed in modern terms as psychic relatedness, and that of Logos as objective interest." When these principles are interpreted from a mythological point of view, we find that the logos is frequently symbolized by the sun as the ruler of the day, consciousness, discrimination and clarity. The feminine principle on the contrary is represented by the moon who rules the night sky and is related to the mysterious forces of the unconscious. "She is the Eros, powerful and fateful, and incomprehensible" (Harding, 1971, 38). The qualities of logos which in a man are related to consciousness, in the woman are related to the un­ conscious. As a consequence of their being associated with the unconscious, they frequently appear embodied in the archetypal figure which C. J. Jung called the animus. Woman is compensated by a masculine element and therefore her unconscious has, so to speak, a masculine imprint. This results in a con<- siderable psychological difference between men and women, and accordingly I have called the projection-making factor in women the animus, which means mind or spirit. The animus corresponds to the paternal Logos just as the anima corresponds to the maternal Eros (Jung, 1968a,114).

Often the animus represents itself in words rather than images. It may reveal itself as an inner voice.

"This," Jung (1957, 20) tells us, "is how we first perceive the animus to be different from the ego, long before it has 115 . crystallized into a personal figure." When the woman has achieved an adequate relationship to the animus, it performs its principal function which is to relate her to the un­ conscious (Harding, 1970, 55), but always, it should be stressed, this relationship has to do with the attaining of understanding.

With the animus, the emphasis does not lie on mere perception—which as was said has always been woman's gift—but true to the nature of the logos, the stress is on knowledge, and especially on understanding. It is the function of the animus to give the meaning rather than the image (Jung, 1957, 26). The manner in which anima and animus function can in part be explained by the place they occupy in the structure of the psyche. C. G. Jung believes that they are located in the deeper layers of the unconscious in intimate association with the collective unconscious.

This localization explains a good deal of their strangeness: they bring into our ephemeral con­ sciousness an unknown psychic life belonging to a remote past. It is the mind of our unknown ancestors, their way of thinking and feeling, their way of experiencing life and the world, gods and men. The existence of these archaic strata is presumably the source of man's belief in reincarna­ tions and in memories of "previous existences." Just as the human body is a museum, so to speak, of its phylogenetic history, so too is the psyche (Jung, 1968b, 286, 287).

In studying the different manifestations which the animus figure may assume, Emma Jung distinguishes between a lower or inferior figure and a higher figure. The positive aspect of this lower animus can be seen in the 116 endeavors of the woman who is an artist. The lower animus is related to the artistic working of physical materials such as clay or wood. As a negative force it may be responsible for violent explosions of affect. It also looms behind the practice of witchcraft: "... often, in a dubious and calamitous way, he acts as confederate to the primordial feminine in us, becoming the instigator or auxiliary force in what are generally termed 'feminine devil's or witch's' arts" (Jung, 1957, 31). When the animus figure has not been properly integrated into the feminine personality, it may, in its inferior aspect, also appear to the woman under the guise of the ghostly lover who would lure her away from the tangible tasks of reality into the mysterious abyss of the unconscious.

. . . the Ghostly Lover, in his psychological or subjective aspect, is a living reality to every woman. He holds his power and exerts his lure because he is a psychological entity, part of that conglomerate of autonomous, or relatively autonomous, factors which make up her psyche. As he is a part of her so she is bound to him; she must find him and consciously assimilate him if she is not to suffer the pain and distress of disintegration (Harding, 1970, 38). The higher animus is of quite a different sort. It functions both as the guardian of the soul and its guide. As such it is an autonomous entity which does not become subordinate to consciousness (Jung,.1957, 37). This spiritual animus does not become a viable.force until the projection of the inferior animus, whether devil or ghostly 117 lover, has been overcome within the woman's psyche (Harding,

1970, 68). Emma Jung sees the higher animus as imbued with

the qualities of the spirit, for which reason it may appear in a variety of different forms and may even change forms. The ability to assume different forms seems to be a characteristic quality of spirit; like mobility, the power to traverse great distances in a short time, is expressive of a quality which thought shares with light. . . . Both of these characteristics, transmutability and speed are found in many myths and fairy tales as attributes of gods or magicians (Jung, 1957, 28, 29). Frances Wickes also recognizes the existence of the spiritual animus whose principal function she sees as that of interpreter of the images of the unconscious. The spiritual animus gives meaning and clarity to a woman's intuited truth. "By turning upon these concepts the light of conscious discrimination he keeps her from accepting any voice that may speak from her unconscious ..." (.Wickes, 1948, 114). The spiritual animus may appear to a woman in dreams as a bird or a messenger, among other possible forms (Wickes, 1948, 114). We can hardly fail to comment upon the nocturnal appearance of the archangel in Carmen Conde's poetry. We have already examined the role played by the archangel in relation to the art of poetry. At this point we must stress the function of the archangel as spiritual guide. The figure of the angel incorporates the concept of spiritual values associated with celestial realms with the winged 118 capacity of the bird. He has that "power to traverse great distances in a short time" mentioned by Emma Jung, and he is as well a messenger. An encounter with the archangel is an experience of illumination. After such an encounter the poet tells us, "jClaridad, espesura, selva de claridades!

Soy vidente como esplritu santo. Veo y penetro los secretos del mar, comprendo su tenacidad de algas" (Conde, 1967, 223). The archangel plays a dual role. He is master of poetry but he is also a teacher of life. "An important function of the higher, that is, the personal animus, is that as a true psychopompus it initiates and accompanies the soul's transformation" (Jung, 1957, 33).

The opposite qualities embodied in the anima and the animus, although both function in relation to the unconscious, imply that in the case of each a different process is involved in the incorporation of these entities into the personality. When the man attempts to integrate the anima, he must overcome the resistance of consciousness, of the ego, which would just as soon not accord to the feminine side of the personality the importance which it is due. For the woman the process is quite other.

What we women have to overcome in our relation­ ship to the animus is not pride but lack of self-confidence and the resistance of inertia. For us, it is not as though we had to demean ourselves, but as if we had to lift ourselves (Jung, 1957, 23}. 119 Thus for woman the proper integration of the animus implies the achievement of a right relationship to the masculine principle within herself or, in other words, the development of those qualities which are customarily associated with logos.

The necessity of successfully integrating the animus in the personality is perhaps the most pressing problem facing modern woman. If she does not attend to this matter of achieving psychic balance, "Her activities may be ruled not by herself but by the unconscious, and therefore inferior man in her psyche" (Wick.es, 1948, 109). She may go about her daily affairs totally unaware that she is responding not to consciousness but rather to the commands of the inferior animus. Inasmuch as the changes in our cultural life have freed woman from bondage to a host of tasks related to the maintenance of home and family which formerly she had to perform, she now has at her disposal a greater quantity of psychic energy. If this energy is permitted to fall back into the unconscious, it may subse­ quently manifest itself in negative and destructive impulses. The woman of today cannot dismiss her Animus problem even if she desires to do so. She cannot return to the status of the old-fashioned woman. But though she must abandon many of the forms of activity once considered feminine, she must find and become even more closely connected with, the deep feminine principle which has remained unaltered through many changing cultures throughout the ages. It is the discovery of this 120 connection which gives woman her safety in the use of her masculine side (Wickes, 1948, 115).

Emma Jung comments similarly on the unacknowledged

effects that technological advances have had on the feminine psyche. "Where she formerly blew up a hearth fire, and thus still accomplished the Promethean act, today she turns a gas plug or an electrical switch and has no inkling of what consequences the loss entails" (Jung, 1957, 7). Thus paradoxically the modern woman radiant in her apparent liberation may become psychologically enslaved to the inferior animus, if she is unable to integrate the logos principle within her. She must discover what it is that she wants and how to achieve it.

Once this lesson has been learned it is so obvious that it can never again be forgotten without tremendous psychic loss. The independence and critical judgement she acquires through this knowledge are positive values and are felt as such by the woman. She can never part with them again (Jung, 1970, 126). As she strives to develop the critical judgment associated with logos, she must not neglect her own femininity. "Learning to cherish and emphasize feminine values is the primary condition of our holding our own against the masculine principle which is mighty in a double sense—both within the psyche and without" (Jung, 1957, 42). Eros is a principle of psychic relatedness and woman, while experiencing transformations within herself, also brings them about through her relationships to other people. 121 The end result of the harmonious integration of the masculine and feminine principles is the birth of the Self. To discriminate between oneself and the animus, and sharply to limit its sphere of power, is extraordinarily important; only by doing so is it possible to free oneself from the fateful consequences of identifying with the animus and being possessed by it. Hand in hand with this discrimination goes the growth of consciousness and the realization of the true Self, which now becomes the decisive factor (Jung, 1957, 38). The term "Self" was adopted by Jung (1968a, 164) for the "wholeness that transcends consciousness." It is the great treasure hidden in the unconscious. It can be seen both as a circle or totality and as the center of that circle, "neither of which coincides with the ego but includes it, just as a larger circle encloses a smaller one" (Jung, 1968a, 142). The Self comprehends all the psychic possibilities within one individual. It expresses the unity of the personality as a whole. But in so far as the total personality, on account of its unconscious component, can be only in part conscious, the concept of the self is, in part, only potentially empirical and is to that extent a postulate (Jung, 1971, 460).

The realization of the Self is the end result of the individuation process. As such Wickes (1948, 116) sees its attainment as a second birth: ". . . in the discovery of the self we become twice born and enter a larger world . . . ." Harding (1970, 24) refers to it as a supra^- personal value which raises man above the pleasure-pain principle, above himself. 122 In commenting upon the psychological transformations

undergone by women, Esther Harding has pointed out the lack of accounts written by women themselves which detail these

subjective experiences. Harding distinguishes between "the man's woman," the woman who most readily bears the projec­ tion of the anima, and the woman who has achieved a greater level of consciousness, a distinction which lies at the heart of feminine liberation. Particularly about the "man's woman" do we lack information, for when depicted in litera­ ture, she is always described from the man's point of view.

By the same token this sort of woman is often reluctant to describe her own feelings or feels no need to do so.

There is, for instance, no outstanding autobiography written by a woman of this type which presents to our closer scrutiny her own inner experience of life. For these women most often present themselves to us solely in terms of their external experience; they recount outer events and the part they played in them but fail to convey a picture of their inner experience (Harding, 1970, 3).

In dealing with Carmen Conde such is not the case at all. Her poetry reveals a continual effort to gain under^ standing of the psychological forces within her. In her writing we find a record of the problems every woman must face in the course of striving toward spiritual transforma­ tion.

While studying the poetry of contemporary American women writers, Segnitz and Rainey pursue the theme of the male described by the female. Just as Harding finds that 123 the male description of the "man's woman" is often

superficial, Segnitz and Rainey come to the conclusion that the male figure described by the woman poet is charac­ teristically nebulous and inexact.

Concerned as women are with their relation­ ships to the male, women poets, like women fiction writers, rarely portray convincing male characters. The male figure—whether God, father, husband or lover—emerges as remote and abstract .... In the poetry of most women the male is usually conceived as an inscrutable symbol of power, with an elusive control over their lives (Segnitz and Rainey, 1973, 19). In the following pages we should like to keep these criteria in mind as we examine the manner in which Carmen

Conde has described the various male figures who appear in her poems. Scrutiny of the male image reveals at once the major areas of conflict appearing in her poetry. Thus emerges the fact that for Carmen Conde the significant areas of stress which woman faces are bound up with her relation­ ship to the male world.

In the preceding chapters of this study we observed a poetic world responding to the unconscious but continual workings of the feminine principle. In this world the urge toward creation, whether identified as that of the poet's need to express the inner world or symbolized in the natural unfolding and growth of a wealth of vegetation, was able to function harmoniously. Yet it is exactly this reproductive need, so much a part of the feminine nature, which Carmen Conde finds violated and thwarted when she 124 attempts to see it in relation to her own historical epoch.

The bitter memories of the Spanish Civil War, followed by the holocaust of World War II, left her with the conviction that it was indeed futile to bear children who might shortly be blown to bits by a hostile and incomprehensible world. War came to represent for her the greatest possible mutilation of the maternal instinct. In Mientras los hombres mueren she lets us see for just a moment that the death of her own still-born child came to be instead of a tragedy, a relief (Engeman, 1962, 64). If the child is interpreted as. a symbol for spiritual growth, that trans­ formation also is aborted by wartime conditions. Yo dol£a por un hijo. Toda mi entrana se abria en sed de un hijo. jAh, que ya s§ por qu§ mi vigilante espiritu no quiso desgajarse una rama!

Pero soy madre crucificada en todos los ninos que saltaron en chispas por impetu de la ronca metralla enemiga. Y estoy doliendo hasta donde se acaba la sangre de mi vientre (Conde, 1967, 209). The male figures which appear in Carmen Conde's poetry of the Civil War are both distant and vague. They never appear as individuals. They are a negative, destruc­ tive force, wielding that "elusive control," to which Segnitz and Rainey refer, over the lives of women. They are the shadowy figures that pull the triggers, control the bombardment of cities and load the cannons, "los cilindros por donde se derrama el odioi" (Cbnde, 1967, 208). 125 Thus she calls upon women to cease bearing children, as the

only effective means to bring the killing to a halt.

Mujeres que vais de luto porque el odio os trajo la muerte a vuestro ragazo, jnegaos a concebir hijos mientras los hombres no borren la guerra del mundo! ; Negaos a parir al hombre que manana matarli al hombre hijo de tu hermana, a la mujer que parirS otro hombre para que mate a tu hermano! (Conde, 1967, 210). The male is seen as responsible for a chain of killings which will simply inspire more killings. An even hazier and more distant representation of the perpetrator of instinct turned destructive and rampant in the world is the enemy, to whom she says:

Quiero tu hijo, aviador enemigo; quiero tu hijo para ensenarle el cuerpo destrozado del mlo,• para que te oiga volar, con tus bombas y tus balas, sobre nuestras cabezas (Conde, 1967, 214).

Yet, while the world may frustrate and thwart the feminine desire to experience fulfillment through the bearing of children, the desire remains and if the energy associated with that process is not directed toward another goal, it will cause inner conflict for the individual involved. Lewis (1971, 95), writing about the incidence of possession by spirits in women, notes "the ancient Greek conception of hysteria as a possession affliction relating directly to the womb (hystera is the Greek word for womb). 11

Plato in the Timaeus considers the barren womb to be a 126 tremendous trouble maker for the unfortunate female it inhabits.

And if it is left unfertilized long beyond the normal time, it causes extreme unrest, strays about the body, blocks the channels of the breath and causes in consequence acute distress and dis­ orders of all kinds (Plato, 1971, 120).

The modern woman who finds herself divorced from her ancient feminine nature, whether by the dreadful spectacle of war or by the opportunities afforded her by the changes in modern culture, must rechannel those energies once associated with the bearing and rearing of children. For Carmen Conde that reorientation meant the pursuit of her career as poet.

The suffering which Carmen Conde endured in the course of the Spanish Civil War undoubtedly brought her to meditate upon the role assigned to woman in the scheme of Western Civilization and more specifically upon the beginnings of that tradition. In Mujer sin Ed§n CI947) she examines the Doctrine of Original Sin from the feminist point of view. Scrutinizing many of the assumptions implicit in Christian mythology, which for centuries have exerted their influence unquestioned, Carmen Conde retells the story of the creation as presented in Genesis, high­ lighting woman's thoughts and feelings.

What happens in the Genesis story of the creation is a devaluation of the feminine. Instead of occupying the central role which woman is customarily viewed as holding 127 in matters of birth and creation, she is regarded as a secondary figure, created after man and from man. Of the cultural changes implicit in this restating of the creation Neumann (1970, 433n) comments:

Patriarchal development brings a revaluation of the feminine, the best-known instance of which is the creation myth in Genesis. Here the Word is the creative principle; world and matter come from the abstract, from the spirit; the female is derived from the male and comes later. At the same time she is negative and seductive, the source of all evil, and must be subjugated by the male.

Implicit in Genesis, then, are many of the cultural assumptions with which woman has had to contend in attempting to develop herself as an individual. Campbell (1973, 108) notes that the cultural heritage of this patriarchal reassessment is an essentially warped cosmological view: . , . in the Christian doctrine of three divine persons in one divine substance what we actually have is a transposition of the symbolism of the Graces three and Hyperborean Apollo into a mythological order of exclusively masculine masks of God—which accorded well enough with the patriarchal spirit of the Old Testament but unbalances radically the symbolic, and therefore spiritual, connotations not only of sex and the sexes, but also of all nature. The wider ramifications of the supremacy of the patriarchal point of view resulted in a reassessment of all the values previously associated with nature. Since God was a distant, self-contained Force, matter was no longer viewed as partaking of the divine. Mother-earth lost her positive generative force and became instead a force for evil. 128 Poseidon's trident . . . became thus the Devil's popular pitchfork; Poseidon's great bull, sire of the minotaur . . . gave the Devil his cloven foot and horns; the very name, Hades, of the god of the underworld became a designation of that inferno which Heinrich Zimmer once described wittily as "Mr. Lucifer's luxury sky­ scraper apartment-hotel for lifers, plunged top downward in the abyss"; and the creative life- fire of the netherworld, displayed in Persephone's torch, became a reeking furnace of sin (Campbell, 1973, 20).

Margaret Murray in The God of the Witches has noted that the witch was, in fact, not originally an associate of the Devil but merely an ordinary pagan who continued to practice her former religion. In the eyes of the Christian priest or monk, anyone who worshipped a pagan god was necessarily a worshipper of the Devil. Since the early keepers of records were usually Christians, pagans and devils were continually grouped together in the same category. Consequently pagan women who persisted in the old religion became associated with the Devil. "No epithet was too strong to be applied to them, they were witches, traffickers with the Devil, workers with evil spirits, and consequently accursed of God, the Christian God" (Murray,

1974, 149).

Mujer sin Ed£n is composed of five Cantos which treat of the position of woman from the moment of the expulsion from the Garden down through the ages. The poem is not limited to the events of Genesis but has an epic tone. Canto One deals with the expulsion itself and with 129 the feelings which the Woman and the Man have regarding this event. Canto Two details the first days on earth, the labors of the Man and the woman and the struggle of the first children. The third Canto, after relating the tale of the flood and Noah's ark, concludes with a long poem entitled "La mujer no comprende," a compendium of the voices of Old Testament women speaking in protest to God. The fourth Canto follows the events associated with the life of Christ from the moment of the Annunciation through the crucifixion and then carries woman's point of view up to the Book of Revelations where in "Visi6n," she identifies herself with the "woman clothed with the sun" Csee Revelations 12:1-2). The fifth and final Canto deals with the woman of today.

Throughout Mujer sin Ed£n the protagonist is Woman, who at times assumes the face of Eve, at times that of the

Virgin Mary, at times that of Mary Magdalene, and is always Carmen Conde as woman's first advocate. The epic treatment of woman's dilemma stresses certain constants in the feminine situation. Eve, Mary and Carmen Conde share problems in their relationship to God and to man, problems which emphasize a community of feminine interest. Nor does God's attitude change in the course of the poem as "He" deals with the feminine protagonist. This archetypal treatment of the subject matter avoids the problems of historical interpretation of 130

biblical material which Campbell sees as one of the conse­ quences of the Christian formulation of the creation of the world.

Moreover, a certain almost ridiculous difficulty has followed upon this exclusion of the female principle from its normal cosmic role. The mythological females of the Christian myth have had to be interpreted historically: Mother, Eve, before and after the Fall, as a prehistoric character in a garden that never was; and Mary, the "mother of God," as a virgin who conceived miraculously and was physically assumed into a place called "heaven above" that does not physically exist (Campbell, 1973, 108). By her archetypal treatment of the subject matter,

Carmen Conde informs us that we are dealing with a spiritual problem facing all women who must confront this devaluation of the feminine. Mujer sin Ed§n can be interpreted both from a psychological and from a cultural point of view. From the psychological perspective, the tale of Eden is seen as an aetiological story concerning the birth of consciousness. The Fall from Grace and the Expulsion from the Garden are something every woman must experience to raise her level of consciousness and develop the logos aspect of her per­ sonality. Positively the Eden story, interpreted by the poet, tells us about woman's desire to liberate herself from unconsciousness.

From a cultural perspective Mujer sin Ed£n is con­ cerned with devaluation of the feminine. The expulsion is a negative experience for several reasons. The Bible views 131 the Fall as undesirable and woman is held accountable for

its happening. She is the "weak" one who is tempted by the

serpent. In a world dominated by men, woman is kept un­ conscious either by not permitting her opportunities to develop herself or by criticizing her if she attempts to move out of her prescribed role. In Mujer sin Ed§n woman protests this cultural stereotyping.

The poet herself has written of her intentions con­ cerning Mujer sin Ed§n: Por este libro he querido pasar, desde el comienzo del mundo hasta quedar en la criatura que soy y con cuyo dolor termina el poema. En principio, Eva se manifiesta como un ser que no comprende a Dios; tampoco le comprende al final, pero le acata ya y le suplica Cquoted in Engeman, 1962, 100).

As we examine the different male figures which appear in Mujer sin Ed§n, it becomes apparent that the real adversaries are Jehovah and woman. The God whom Carmen

Conde describes is a wrathful visage as unpardoning in the fifth Canto as in the first. She refers to him as Dios de Ira {.Conde, 1967, 374) and describes the c61era rugiente

(.Conde, 1967, 37 5) in his beard. He is the implacable force who with stern words expels the first man and the first woman from the Garden. "jVientos, acudid; bramad, las fieras! / El hombre y la mujer estSn proscritos" (Conde,

1967, 382). Throughout the poem he remains an inscrutable force. 132 lQu£ es el tiempo ante Ti, qu£ son los truenos que blandes contra ml cuando me nombras? Pavor siento a tu idea, te veo hosco mirSndome en la lumbre de tu ArcSngel. La espada Tta tambiSn, eres el filo y el porno que se aprieta con el puno (Conde, 1967, 388). While it would appear for a moment that God has pardoned woman when his spirit descends through the voice of the angel to impregnate Mary (Conde, 1967, 411), the subsequent crucifixion of the son so repugnant to the mother, which is a part of the Grand Scheme, proves other­ wise. Consequently, woman sees herself "jsiempre perseguida por la bestia!" (Conde, 1967, 422) and her last words ponder God's unrelenting severity.

Porque Ttl perdonaras, porque al fin olvidaras.

Woman must continue as she has.

The first man, who remains unnamed, although she identifies herself as Eve (Conde, 1967, 387, 410) does not 133 appear as a strong individual. His posture toward the Creator is described as "extStica admiraci6n sin lucha" (Conde, 1967, 378). He is a secondary character who incidentally got mixed up in her controversy with Jehovah. Having been made in God's image, he is content with the unconsciousness symbolized by the Garden. Consequently he is also easily led to do Eve's bidding. Comments Vicente

Aleixandre, "Dios no ama a la mujer porque quiso al Hombre para si entero y la mujer--naturaleza—le distrajo de su adoraci6n Cinica" ("Carta a Carmen Conde," quoted in Engeman, 1962, 103).

After the Expulsion Eve pities the man because he is not as fit for the rigors of exile as she and would rather return to the innocent pleasures of the Garden. After the first harvest has been gathered and sacrifices made, she asks God to be kind to the man because he misses Eden.

Trigo y recentales sobre la piedra oscura. Ofrendas de tu mundo, que no logran tu gracia. Sonrlele al hombre; §1 no sabe estar solo y suena con tu Eden, con tu boca de cedros CConde, 1967, 384). Her earthly companion, is always overshadowed by the omnipotence of God, the celestial adversary. Man never attains the stature of a fully drawn character.

A similar situation occurs in the case of Cain and

Abel. For Carmen Conde the rivalry between the first children does not illustrate merely "a conflict between the two ancient occupations of farming and sheepherding," as 134 Trawick (.197 0, 53) has stated. Rather it is a direct consequence of the drama of the Garden and of Eve's dis­ obedience. Cain is viewed as inexorably cut off from God's grace because he was conceived before the Expulsion. He partakes of his mother's resentment against God. Says Eve to God:

por qu£ le miras sin amor. A Cain rechazas por semilla en tu jardin sin Td quererlo. Naci6 Cain en yermo, pis6 caminos agrios, tom6 desde mi vientre rencor, celos de Ti. Criatura de tu ira, con ira te responde (Conde, 1967, 391). As a consequence of his conception in the Garden, Cain was directly nurtured by the juice of the apple which Eve bit into at the serpent's bidding. He is the indirect recipient of the knowledge God had warned man not to seek. Abel, conceived on earth ("fruto de las noches, que, ... / el hombre y yo engendramos sonando tu Jardin" (Conde, 1967, 391) and not participating in the drama of Eve's dis­ obedience, is preferred by God, while the mother exhibits a special tenderness for the first born who shares her emotions. Cain lo sabe todo. Tiene zumos del Arbol que calent6 su brote cuando yo no sabla. Cain es del Edgn; su tristeza le envuelve mils dulce que la piel de cordero que viste (Conde, 1967, 392).

There is, then, a sort of spiritual incest between Eve and Cain, both of whom are despised by the Father, while Abel is well received. The murder of Abel and the 135 subsequent cursing of Cain by God are both interpreted from the point of view of the Mother who sees in them the will of

God inexorably carrying out his punishment of her. Eve laments:

Se ha hecho de mis frutos horas torvas; infiernos de mi vientre; virus triste para la tierna carne nueva ... (Conde, 1967, 395).

Like Adam Cain and Abel remain secondary characters, fleshed out only as they pertain to the conflicts felt by

the mother. They are relevant only as they relate to the great polarity between Woman and God.

The last masculine figure whom we shall consider in relation to Mujer sin Ed§n is that of Christ. Christ, as presented in Mujer sin Ed£n, should probably be considered principally as a symbol rather than an historical person. As a character Christ never really enters into the drama of his own life at all. He speaks no lines, expresses no opinions. He is a symbolical configuration around whom cluster the reactions of the different women whose lives become tangential to his. The first intimations of the coming of Christ are expressed by the woman who will bear him:

IQu§ criaturas germino que no veo nacidas? jOh mi dolor, que duele a romeros floridos! Nadie sabe mi ser, y soy el mundo redondo CConde, 1967, 408). 136 Her comment that she is "el mundo redondo" pre­ figures the symbol of Christ as wholeness, the attainment of the Self. The next expression related to the coming of the

Christ is an awareness by woman of the voice, the instrument of God by which the divine child will be implanted in the womb of woman. It is a presentiment which inspires awe and fear.

jSe amontona en llamadas la Voz! JAy de ti si la huyes! JAy de mi que la oigol Busca a la mujer (Conde, 1967, 409). And it is precisely by means of the voice that the divine conception takes place. No supe de var6n. Llegado el Angel, pas6me con su voz al cuerpo intacto temblor de requeridas cumbres (Conde, 1967, 411).

In examining the structure of these events it is of interest to note Neumann's observation that this sort of conception actually involves early matriarchal symbolism and, consequently represents a cultural throwback to that point of view. The miracle of birth was . . . originally ascribed by primitive woman to the numinosum, to the wind or the ancestral spirits. It is a prepatriarchal experience that antedates the time when procreation was felt to be causally connected with sexual intercourse and hence with a man. Woman's primary experience of birth is matriarchal. It is not the man who is father to the child: the miracle of pro­ creation springs from God (Neumann, 1970, 134).. 137 Throughout Mujer sin Edgn speaks the frustrated voice of the Eternal Feminine, indeed of the devalued matriarchy, which suffers, endures and cries for adequate recognition of its creative role. In this context we find the voice of Eve, speaking through Mary, foreseeing how the whole drama of the crucifixion will hurt her and demanding from God a reason for it all. Ave, Eva. Nombres de mujer en dos Edades. Presencias de tu Ser. Pero Maria jamSs pec6, Senor, £Por qu£ la eliges sufridora del drama sobrehumano? ]No hay Srbol de la ciencia, no hay Srbol de la vida para ella! (Conde, 1967, 410). Included among the women who are profoundly affected by the coming of Christ is Mary Magdalene, "Soy fragante mujer, y peco por amor ..." (Conde, 1967, 412}, In Christ's forgiveness of her past sins, she stresses the nature of his symbolical configuration as a figure heralding transformation. Pastor y gran labriego del coraz6n cansino, al verte y al tocarte yo toda me ilumino de la aurora redonda de tu verbo divino (Conde, 1967, 412).

Mary Magdalene is sometimes associated with the sinful woman who bathes Jesus' feet with her tears while he is dining in the home of Simon, the Pharisee (Luke 7: 36-50). Both Medieval and Renaissance art depict her as the penitent prostitute, although there is no justification for this association (Trawick, 1968, 64n). 138 Finally, we see Mary at the scene of the crucifixion, woman once more powerless before God's design. Like Eve she is the suffering mother robbed of her child. Weeping she implores God, "DefiSndele del Mai, recu^rdale: es tuyo" CConde, 1967, 413).

In Mujer sin Edgn we never see Christ as an indi­ vidual but rather as the constellation of an idea in rela­ tion to which the various female characters react. With respect to the symbolism of the Christ figure Jung (1968a,

36) states:

He is our culture hero, who, regardless of his historical existence, embodies the myth of the divine Primordial Man, the mystic Adam. It is he who occupies the centre of the Christian mandala, who is the Lord of the Tetramorph, i.e., the four symbols of the evangelists, which are like the four columns of his throne. The archetype of the hero represents the forerunner of mankind. It is the hero's task to slay the mythological First Parents, which act is symbolized by the fight with the dragon. If he is successful, he gains possession of the masculine and feminine sides of himself and the victory of consciousness over the unconscious is complete (Neumann, 1970, 131). The Christ symbol, however, comprehends a symbolical configuration much greater than that of the hero. Christ as hero has to do with the successful emergence of conscious­ ness, but Christ as the center of the Christian mandala is a symbol of psychological wholeness. "Christ exemplifies the 139 archetype of the self. He represents a totality of a

divine or heavenly kind, a glorified man, a son of God sine macula peccati, unspotted by sin" (Jung, 1968a, 37). It is

this symbol of wholeness which prefigures the overcoming of

inner conflict, the healing of a psychic split that may have

endangered the individual in question. As Jung goes on to tell us: It brings about an integration, a bridging of the split in the personality caused by the instincts striving apart in different and mutually contradictory directions. The only time the split does not occur is when a person is still as legitimately unconscious of his instinctual life as an animal (Jung, 1968a, 40). That Carmen Conde viewed Christ as just such a symbol of wholeness in Mujer sin Ed§n can be seen from a few strophes of "Recordando a Jestis," where Christ, after the crucifixion is mourned by the women who have lost him. Era igual que la luz, todo lo revelaba. Igual que el agua limpia, todo lo redimla.

Sus ojos traspasaban, espadas del Senor sus ojos eran largos: del cielo hasta mis ojos.

Jestis era la sangre de que el mundo se hizo. Todos los hombres juntos cablan en Jestis.

Creci6 desde la tierra, yendo a clavar su copa entre las ramas verdes de los luceros vivos (Conde, 1967, 414).

As the spiritual light of revelation and the redeeming water of purification, Christ is seen as a symbol of illumination and spiritual unification. His touch is 140 personal. His glance reaches us from heaven. He is all men in one, the "totality" of which Jung speaks. Christ unites earth and sky, the chthonic with the uranic. He is the cosmic tree that grows upward to heaven representing the harmonious integration of masculine and feminine qualities.

Toward this spiritual wholeness woman would strive, but she finds the very symbol of that totality snatched from her grasp by the deeds of man and God, who together make her spiritual fulfillment exceedingly difficult.

Having examined the function of the various male figures which appear in Mujer sin Ed^n, we shall now observe in some detail the manner in which woman characterizes her­ self. Segnitz and Rainey (1973, 181, in their study of contemporary women poets, found several common trends:

. . . in searching for mythic ancestresses, women poets reject images glorified by the male imagina­ tion, such as Aphrodite, Helen, and Eve—those dual-natured archetypes of Beauty, virgin- seducers, and purveyors of man's joy and destruc­ tion. Instead, they find their psychological ties with such figures as Leda, Cassandra, and Lot's wife—all victims of the gods or society, struggling to comprehend their circumstances and to express themselves.

While Carmen Conde does consider Eve a mythic ancestress, she does not describe her as a "purveyor of man's joy and destruction." Rather she is seen, like Lot's wife, as a victim of Jehovah. To that extent the observa­ tion made by Segnitz and Rainey would seem to apply also to the poetry of Carmen Conde, But Conde's Eve is by no means 141 a passive personality. She does not struggle to comprehend

her circumstances so much as she forcefully protests

against them. In describing herself she does see woman as a member of the "weaker" sex, a role thus defined for her by patriarchal culture. In The Mothers Briffault (1977, 70) notes that whereas it used to be assumed that in civilized

society women occupied a more elevated position than in tribal cultures, actually just the opposite is true.

Briffault attributes woman's subservient role in patriarchal

society to two factors: the increased importance given to private property and woman's economic dependence on man. As long as women are responsible for the major share of labor,

they maintain a position of social and economic independence, "and it is a fallacy to suppose that the hard work which they do is an indication of inferiority" (Briffault, 1977, 97). Carmen Conde's Eve, who within the context of the patriarchal point of view must justify her actions, comments that unlike the man she was not made of the pure stuff of God.

No soy yo sustancia de Dios pura. Hizome El del hombre con su carne y all! quise volver: hincarme dentro (Conde, 1967, 373).

She was created while the man slept, thereby implying that some measure of chthonic instinct must have been passed on to her. 142 Yo, tu criatura, la mSs dgbil, la que dentro del sueno Tfi infundiste, luchando con la selva y con las furias (Conde, 1967, 379).

Her "crime," the theft of moral knowledge, is some­ thing about which she is pleased.

Igual que la creaci6n: yo habla creado la gloria de seguirla, de crearla por siempre con lo mismo ya creado (Conde, 1967, 374).

Only in the Hebrew conception of the cosmos is the knowledge of good and evil considered sinful. Ego- consciousness, arising from the separation of the opposites, brings with it a sense of loss, the nostalgia man feels for the pre-intellectual state. The Eden story is aetiological, in that it accounts for the loss by explaining it as a punishment. Woman, who especially must labor to develop her logos function, objects to the mythological role cast for her as the party responsible for Jehovah's wrath toward mankind. Mas iy la voluntad del ser creado? Nacer y respirar, sentirse vivo, cno es ya la libertad de querer mucho? (Conde, 1967, 378).

She did not make either the Trees of the Garden or the serpent. If God did not want man to attain consciousr ness, why did He permit her to be tempted? «LC6mo dejaste nacer a tus contrarios, enseriarme la carne que se quema alegre en vltores que un ojo de ofidio presidia por ofenderte a Ti, el Hacedor del mundo? (Conde, 1967, 378). 143 In this regard, Harding (1970, 203) notes that in myth the development of man's consciousness is often viewed as a "stealing of something which the gods have reserved for themselves; for to be an individual is to be godlike."

For Carmen Conde the Eden story comprehends woman's attempt to raise her own consciousness, the punishment meted out to her by the patriarchy for her daring and the consequent suffering she must endure. She begins her narrative in "Arrojada al jardin con el hombre," precisely at the moment when Adam and Eve are driven from the Garden. The details of woman's creation from man and the events leading up to the Expulsion are given to us later in flashback, as the Man and the Woman in exile recall their former life. Through this narrative treatment the Expulsion is presented to us as the single most important event of the tale. Symbolically, as we have noted above, it represents the emergence of the ego from the unconscious, the paradise of the Garden where all elements are contained within the round. The expulsion is a consequence of the conflict which accompanies the separation of the previously undifferentiated masculine and feminine elements of the psyche.

In the great religions, the primal deed, the separation of the World Parents, is theological. An attempt is made to rationalize and moralize the undeniable sense of deficiency that attaches to the emancipated ego. Interpreted as sin, apostasy, rebellion, disobedience, this emancipa­ tion is in reality the fundamental liberating act of man which releases him from the yoke of the 144 unconscious and establishes him as an ego, a conscious individual (Neumann, 1970, 120).

Woman in Mujer sin Ed§n takes full credit for this liberating act so essential ultimately to her developing herself. In this respect Carmen Conde radically changes the focus of the traditional interpretation of these events.

The woman of Mujer sin Eden, although she must suffer, exults in what she has done. The expulsion is a consequence of her theft of the knowledge of Good and Evil.

Eve's pride in what she has done perfectly explains the ambivalent attitude she exhibits toward the serpent. It is the serpent who leads the man and the woman into exile. Juntos y malditos, deseSndonos, seguidos por un coro de estertores, guiados por la bestia esplendorosa nos fuimos alejando ... (Conde, 1967, 376). Examining the history of the serpent as a symbol, we learn that the serpent, embodying the principle of instinct, frequently appears at the side of the Great Mother.

The attendant serpent—apart from its numinous nature—is likewise a symbol of the fertilizing phallus. That is why the Great Mother is so often connected with snakes. Not only in Creto- Mycenaean culture and its Greek offshoots, but as far back as Egypt, Phoenicia, and Babylon and similarly in the Bible story of Paradise, the snake is the companion of woman (Neumann, 197 0, 48).

From Davidson (1967, s.v. "Satan") we learn that it was in the later Jewish literature that the serpent became identified with Satan. The consequence of this reinterpre- tation, as Campbell has shown, was a devaluation of all 145 that formerly had been considered divine in nature.

Wherever nature is revered as self-moving, and so inherently divine, the serpent is revered as symbolic of its divine life. And accordingly in the Book of Genesis, where the serpent is cursed, all nature is devaluated and its power of life regarded as nothing in itself: nature is here self-moving indeed, self-willed, but only by virtue of the life given it by a superior being, its creator (Campbell, 1973, 154).

The serpent accompanies Adam and Eve into exile. Like the force of instinct, it is ever present. Thus, addressing the serpent in a poem entitled "Horror a la bestia, 11 Woman asks: £,Por qu£ supe de ti, oh bestia impura? iAcaso te salvaste del oscuro silencio llevcindote conmigo por las quemantes tierras que Dios nos destinara en su arrebato? (Conde, 1967, 420). .

But the serpent is not seen as an entirely negative force. It is recognized as symbolic of instinct, specifi­ cally of sexuality, for it bites her womb, and she refers to it as "sweet." Ray^ndonos estSs, y te roemos. La lucha es para ml, que te conozco. Que te he traido aqul, que me gobiernas.

Te domarS mi vida, te domarS mi muerte, maldita bestia dulce, embriagadora loca que muerdes mis entranas, tu manzana fragante CConde, 1967, 420).

It is not surprising to find that in Derribado arccingel the fallen angel speaks on the same symbolic level as the serpent of Mujer sin Ed§n and toward him is exhibited 146 the same ambivalence of attitude. "IOh la gloria de abrir al demonio la puerta / y cerrSrsela al fin, condenSndonos dentro!" CConde, 1967, 679). Woman, accepting her instinctual side, cannot see the serpent as an entirely negative force.

The manner in which the relationship between the Man and the Woman, once exiled, is presented suggests that the poet here envisions their mutual attraction as a function of the anima/animus projection. Since according to Genesis woman was formed from man, they are seen as one body divided. Each seeks the other to complete himself. The Man says to Eve: CaySse el sueno a ml, y ya dormido te hicieron de mi espalda, mujer mia. Me buscas y te busco; el hambre tuya es hambre de ti en m£. Yo te deseo CConde, 1967, 377). Similarly Eve says of the Man: jlmSn, sangre del hombre; me atra£a olrla entre mis labios; su respiro abrlaseme en la boca, flor de dientes mordida por mi voz en su crecida! Dios no supo, porque El es todo, cucinto atrae lo mismo en dos mitades CConde, 1967, 375).

The same necessity for self-completion is operative in the psyche of the woman who projects her animus onto the man with whom she falls in love. As the Man says to Eve,

"el hambre tuya / es hambre de ti en ml" CConde, 1967, 377).

Concurrent with the birth of consciousness is the birth of the shadow. 147 Las hogueras prendidas por la espada corao zarzas, nos dieron otros seres: las dos sombras que Si y yo ganamos padeciendo (Conde, 1967, 376).

The fires set by the Angel's flaming sword cause the bodies of the Man and the Woman to cast two shadows, symbolic of their new awareness. Having tasted the fruit of Good and Evil and having been punished for their dis­ obedience, the Man and the Woman experience guilt. That Carmen Conde should see the shadow as coming into existence at the time of the expulsion is singularly appropriate. With man's Fall from Grace consciousness is separated from the unconscious and instinct becomes a potentially sinister force. Only following the birth of consciousness is there danger that the unconscious may be split off from consciousness or denied. When this division occurs, the psyche acquires a dark or "shadow" side.

The shadow contains the repressed and undesirable aspects of the personality. It embodies all those qualities we like least about ourselves and consequently recognize.only when we project them onto other people. Jung stresses the necessity of recognizing the shadow and integrating this aspect of the unconscious personality so that it will not have a negative force. It is only when ignored that it becomes a destructive autonomous complex

(Jung, 1966b, 3 0). 148

On a wider range, the shadow can serve as the motivating force that prompts man to full-scale war. Instead of conquering the dark side of his own personality,

he sets out to vanquish all that evil which he sees pro­

jected on his enemy. This destruction is the outcome of

man's neglecting his shadow to which Carmen Conde refers in

the last Canto of Mujer sin Ed§n. Modern woman tells us: Otras veces he sido resplandeciente ascua iluminando a todos: luz de lumbre perfecta. Los seres que mataron, hechos carne podrida, oscuros de metralla, reventados en niebla, han legado a mi tiempo de vida este horror de su sombra purulenta y nefasta. Apag6se mi risa, me fundieron la estrella, y -ahora soy la muerta que los contiene muertos (Conde, 1967, 432). Like the Eden story which it reinterprets, Mujer sin Ed£n is a dramatic representation of the birth of consciousness and an illustration of the attendant psycho­ logical processes which begin to function as a consequence; namely, the mechanisms of projection associated with the

various archetypes in the unconscious: in man, the anima; in woman, the animus; and in both, the shadow.

Mujer sin Ed§n can also be interpreted as an explication of woman's sentiments and a defense of the value of the feminine. Following the Expulsion, Woman reflects considerably upon the consequences of what she has done and looks forward as well to what effect her action will have on future events. She is now travelling the road of individuation. It is for this reason that Mujer sin Edgn 149 takes on the character of an extended dialogue between God and Woman. Throughout the poem Woman's attitude toward God is influenced by the way she perceives and understands the punishment meted out to her. Her attitude changes from one of outrage and defiance to an admission of confusion and contrition, to a desire to achieve reconciliation through love of the creator, finally to a threat to devour him because he has become for modern woman (el) Senor de la muerte (Conde, 1967, 424).

Woman's punishment is announced by Jehovah. She must bear children with pain, "Multiplicar§ tus dolores y preneces ..." (Conde, 1967, 382) and man must till the soil.

"Vete a labrar la tierra, quiero verla / vergel como este mlo" (Conde, 1967, 382). The more sinister aspects of this command are not immediately apparent, but woman with her intuitive capacity perceives the outcome. Eve says to God: Descifro tu secreto, y lo prolongo .., jTendrSs hombres; de hombres oc§anos, que mi cuerpo querrS brotarle al mundo! (Conde, 1967, 379). Later she says to the man:

]0h siglos de labranza, hombre que empiezas llevcindome a tu lado para secar tu frente! jOh maldita de Dios yo: tu oscura hembra ha de parirte tumbas, los impuros manzanos (Conde, 1967, 383).

Carmen Conde emphasizes woman's reputation as prophetess and seer, made possible by her greater openness toward and receptivity of the contents of the unconscious. 150 Emma Jung comments on this closeness to the unconscious which woman possesses and which has given her fame as one upon whom has been bestowed a special sort of vision.

Woman's gift as seer, her intuitive faculty, has always been recognized. Not having her vision brought to a focus gives her an awareness of what is obscure and the power to see what is hidden from a keener eye. This vision, this perception of what is otherwise invisible, is made possible for the man by the anima (Jung, 1957, 25). Woman's view of her punishment is rather different. Since she does not perceive what she did as something altogether negative, God's unrelenting persecution of her is baffling. jOh tu castigo eterno, tu maldici6n perenne: brotar y aniquilarme lo que broto a la fuerza, porque un dla yo quise que el hombre por Ti hecho repitiera en mi cuerpo su estatua, Tu Figura! (.Conde, 1967, 426).

Woman does not view her act as the releasing of unbridled lust among God's creatures. Rather she wanted to be able to create. Thus in "La mujer no comprende," the women of the Hebrew patriarchs raise a common cry of indignation before Jehovah's inscrutable ways. Woman's punishment is presented as fitting her crime. It is in wanting to create that she has dared to be godlike. Thus in each case it is the bearing of children which is affected. The poem concludes: Unas veces le niegas que me siga a tu hombre, Otras niegas el hi jo a mi cuerpo doliente ... Y hay momentos que baja tu voluntad fecunda y soy un manantial de hijos que te loan. . 151 Si soy Sarah, perdonas. Si soy Agar, ayudas. Si la hembra de Lot, no perdonas que mire. Y me dejas que yazga con un padre embriagado y no escuchas mi voz, que es un cardo sin flores (Conde, 1967, 407).

The pardoning of Sarah, wife of Abraham who had been unable to bear children, takes place when she is beyond the child-bearing years. Thus from woman's point of view, God's pardon really represents another burden to be endured.

When Jehovah gives the news to Abraham, he is incredulous, and Sarah actually laughs in disbelief. A1 olr esto Sara, se r£o detr£s de la puerta de la tienda. Es de considerar que ambos a dos eran viejos y de avanzada edad, y a Sara le habla faltado ya la costumbre de las mujeres. Ri6se, pues, secretamente, diciendo para consigo: icon que despu^s que ya estoy vieja y mi senor lo estci mcis pensare en usar del matrimonto? (Sagrada Biblia, 1964, Genesis 18:10-12).

Genesis is here concerned with how the lineage of the Chosen People is to be established, especially when these events are a demonstration of God's miraculous power, Sarah is ninety years old when she gives birth to Isaac. To Woman these events represent a tampering with her natural functioning.

Hagar the Egyptian is one of Sarah's slaves whom she gives to Abraham as a concubine according to the custom of the day (Trawick, 1970, 56), because she is unable to conceive. Hagar bears Ishmael, and a rivalry develops between her and Sarah, Ultimately Hagar and her son are banished and nearly die of thirst in the desert. It is 152 there that God ignores Hagar's cry for water ("no escuchas mi voz") but waits until Ishmael cries out at which point a well miraculously appears (Genesis 14:20).

Sodom and Gomorrah are destroyed because not even ten righteous men can be found. Two angels appear to Lot, the nephew of Abraham, and tell him to flee with his family. His wife, however, disobeys the commandment not to look back and is turned into a pillar of salt. Subsequently Lot's two daughters commit incest. "Y me dejas que yazga con un padre embriagado ..." (Conde, 1967, 407). Says the elder daughter to the younger: Nuestro padre es viejo, y no ha quedado en la tierra ni un homhre que pueda casarse con nosotras, segtin se acostumbra en todos los palses. Ven y emborrachemosle con vino, y durmamos con §1, a fin de poder conservar el linaje por medio de nuestro padre (Genesis 19:31-32).

In each of these cases woman is subservient to the wishes of God and man, living out God's curse. a tu marido serS tu deseo, / y §1 se te ensenorearS'1 (Conde, 1967, 382). If God helps Hagar when his doing so is offensive to Sarah, it is part of the plan. Lot's incest is acceptable because it will further the lineage of the patriarchs. But to woman the plan is incomprehensible. The punishment as interpreted by modern woman takes on terrifying proportions. It is the fate of modern woman, as mother, to perpetuate the horrors of war, the work of the shadow. 153 No hay lecho que me guarde, jni de tierra siquiera! Los muertos me sepultan, y obligada a vivir aparto sus plomadas y vuelvo a dar la vida (Conde, 1967, 426).

The final plea is to be liberated from the conse­ quences of her punishment, which has reached grotesque

proportions. The outraged voice of the matriarchy even threatens to devour God himself.

Soy madre de los muertos. De los que matan, madre. Madre de Ti sere si no acabas conmigo. Vu^lveme ya de polvo. Du^rmeme. Hunde toda la espada de la llama que me ech6 del Ed§n, abrasSndome el cuerpo que te pide descanso. jHaz conmigo una fosa, una sola, la Ultima, donde quepamos todos los que aqul te clamamos (Conde, 1967, 427).

Thus in the fifth "Canto" of Mujer sin Ed§n we find this dramatic identification of woman with the archetype of the Terrible Great Mother. "When the world of security crumbles, man is inevitably devoured by nigredo, the black-- ness and chaos of the prima materia, and the two great archetypal figures of the Devil and the Terrible Mother dominate the world" (Neumann,. 1971, 113). Mujer sin Ed§n records woman's voice and woman's feelings about each major event of the Christian myth. Often that voice is one of anger which protests the role which woman has been given in that mythology. Woman's punishment is the devaluation of the feminine and the one-sided development of consciousness which has allowed the archetype of the shadow to become so powerful. Carmen 154 Conde would seem to agree with Neumann when he comments that:

. . . this problem of the Feminine has equal importance for the psychologist of culture, who recognizes that the peril of present-day mankind springs in large part from the one-sidedly patriarchal development of the male intellectual consciousness, which is no longer kept in balance by the matriarchal world of the psyche (Neumann, 1963, xlii).

Like Joseph Campbell, Carmen Conde sees the devalua­ tion of the feminine resulting in a world torn by war, a world dominated by an unrepresentative and one-sided cosmology, a world which can best be described as a Waste Land.

The Waste Land, let us say then, is any world in which (to state the problem pedagogically) force and not love, indoctrination, not education, authority, not experience, prevail in the ordering of lives, and where the myths and rites enforced and received are consequently unrelated to the actual inward realizations, needs, and poten­ tialities of those upon whom they are impressed (Campbell, 1973, 388).

We have observed from a theoretical perspective the contemporary problem of psychic integration. For twentieth- century woman that process involves the development of the logos function and the positive integration of the animus, without neglect to the feminine side of the personality.

We have also seen how the devaluation of the feminine in Christian mythology has made the task doubly difficult, conferring socially its tacit approval of male domination. In the religious sphere the divorce between Instinct and 155 ego-intellect has produced a Waste Land, a devaluation of

the individual human life as such. Mujer sin Edgn is a

great protest against the manner in which the Christian myth has defined woman's place and made her through the centuries its accomplice.

In concluding this discussion of the respective roles of the principles of eros and logos in modern woman,

we will consider a poem entitled "Entrana," which presents in succinct form the dilemma modern woman must resolve.

Preferiria no recordarte. Cada dla tuyo yendote de ti, sangre mia, es un clavo frio en mi vientre. No podemos hablar en tu idioma ni en el mlo: tenemos lenguas distintas y un silencio comiin trepidante. Por eso no sabes lo que dueles, lo que me desgarras; c6mo pesas en mis senos, en mis lomos. Porque no te lo digo, porque no lo entenderlas. £Nunca se pueden cerrar los ojos y dormirse entre dos manzanas, Senor? jLa del Paralso y aquella otra de la joven dormida cien anos hasta un beso! CConde, 1967, 497). The basic problem which Carmen Conde points out is the conflict between intelligence and instinct. They can

not converse because they speak separate languages. Here the poet has neatly synthesized the conflict present in Western Civilization, for she has expressed exactly the

problem of eros split off from logos. Thus she would rather not remember her instinctual side, her "sangre," and the rejected instinctual side hurts her, feels heavy inside her. 156 She does not try to explain to it the pain it causes her.

She knows it would not understand. The only thing which instinct and intelligence have in common for modern man is the silence of misunderstanding.

The last strophe makes reference to two apples, two temptations. One is the apple of the Garden which contains the knowledge of instinct. The other is a reference to the motif of "Sleeping Beauty," "la joven dormida cien anos hasta un beso" (Conde, 1967, 497). While it is Snow White rather than Sleeping Beauty who falls into a deathlike trance after eating a bit of a poison apple, the difference is unimportant, for as Neumann (1962, 118) points out, the stories have a common motif. In each case the sleep is caused by a vindictive mother figure. Snow White is poisoned by a stepmother who is jealous because the child if fairer than she. Sleeping Beauty is cursed by the one

Wise Woman who is excluded from the celebration of her birth. Von Franz (1972, 8), who has studied the tale in depth, finds that, although there are several versions, the basic facts do not vary between them.

The tale says a great deal about Western Civiliza­ tion, for it shows what happens when the feminine principle is excluded. The angered Wise Woman is a symbol for the forgotten feminine principle. Von Franz notes that the curse is to have its dreaded effect when Sleeping Beauty reaches the age of fifteen or at the age of puberty. The 157 effect of the curse is to halt the development of her femininity just as it reaches the stage when its sexual aspect becomes important. "The feminine element which does not quite fit in a civilization is allowed to live through childhood, but not when it gets to the age of being taken seriously in the adult world" Cvon Franz, 1972, 37).

At the moment when she is to become a woman, little Briar-Rose falls asleep. Neumann refers to the girl's arrested development as "the beauty of the glass coffin,"13 for it is a beauty which knows nothing of life.

This beauty of existence in the unconscious gives the feminine a natural maidenly perfection. But preserved forever, it becomes a beauty of death, a beauty of Persephone, who is inhuman since her existence is one of divine perfection, without fate, suffering, or knowledge (Neumann, 1962, 118). In the light of these commentaries on the tale of "Sleeping Beauty," we may now reconsider the last strophe of "Entrafia." cNunca se pueden cerrar los ojos y dormirse entre dos manzanas, Senor? jLa del Paralso y aquella otra de la joven dormida cien anos hasta un beso! (Conde, 1967, 497).

These two apples embody the alternatives woman has.

Either she may, like Eve, eat of the apple of the Garden and suffer the pain its knowledge will bestow upon her, ma,king her aware of her instinctual side in a civilization

13, The term is taken from Grimm's Tale #163. 158 which tells her she should not have one, or she may, like

Sleeping Beauty, remain completely unconscious, preserving the beauty of innocence intact. In this dialectic Eve is woman as a moral being while Snow White-Sleeping Beauty is woman as innocence. These are the possibilities which Carmen Conde sees open to woman in a culture which has devalued the feminine. The alternatives are represented as two apples, two temptations, because they stand for the two roads to self-development most often chosen by women. The poet asks if it would not be possible to shut one's eyes and sleep between these two apples. To close one's eyes would be to ignore them and if, instead of choosing, woman were to fall asleep, perhaps the unconscious itself would suggest to her another way. PART III

ANOTHER DIMENSION

159 CHAPTER 6

ECSTASY

Civilization offers the socially conventional woman two life styles. She may opt to remain psychologically unaware, that is, live out her life as a "man's woman," or she may accept the moral knowledge of Eve which will cut

her off from her own feminine nature. The psyche of modern woman is thus fraught with inner conflict. In "Entraria" Carmen Conde appears to reject these

two alternatives. Consistently her poetry reveals the

presence of an internal "chemical" process, which in moments of illumination brings her to transcend all division and attain a new reality. The experience of ecstasy is perhaps the single most persistent theme in her poetry.

Before undertaking the study of ecstasy as it appears in the poetry of Carmen Conde, we must undertake a theoreti­ cal examination of ecstasy and the various phenomena associated with it. We shall note a-number of views observing how frequently the images and definitions coincide with statements made by Carmen Conde. Ecstasy may be defined as a transcending of the personal ego, through union with a greater force—a numen

160 161 (hence "numinous"), whether we call it Love, God, or the Muse.14

The British anthropologist Lewis (1971, 18), who has

studied the sociological phenomena most likely to produce

the ecstatic experience, defines ecstasy primarily in terms

of trance. His definition implies the notion of divinity moving toward man, which corresponds to Johnston's (1974,

49) definition of ultimate reality,

Again there is bound to be awful mystery in an exercise that is built on the belief that ultimate reality is dynamic, that it moves towards us as we move towards it., that it searches us out before we go in search for it . . . that is to say there is a prior action of ultimate reality inviting man to contemplative wisdom; and the mystical path is an answer to this call.

This dynamic quality of the ultimate reality is what Johnston (1974, 49) defines as "grace." Causally ecstacy can be attributed to man the seeker or to the dynamic aspect of the ultimate reality. According to Harding (1973, 34), the notion of the dynamic quality of the ultimate reality is a conceptual projection of man's need for the unifying inner experience:

It is an expression of the instinctive drive to self-preservation on a psychic, not a biological level. Those in whom it has been aroused are compelled to strive for the satisfac­ tion of its demands or endure the pangs of spiritual hunger and eventual starvation.

14. See Underhill's (1961) classic study, Mysticism. 162 When considered as a mystical phenomenon, ecstasy is

an "act of perception," resulting in profound inner changes imbuing the ecstatic with an intimate experience of the

Eternal Now. Man's usual sensation of divisible space and sidereal time ceases to exist. Space becomes the Cosmos as

a whole and time becomes Now. "The vitality which we are accustomed to split amongst these various things, is gathered up to form a state of 'pure apprehension': a vivid intuition of—or if you like conjunction with—the

transcendent" (Underhill, 1961, 367). Ecstasy is the atemporal lucidity of non-ego; consciousness in trance.

Some see it as an experience which man seeks to attain,

while others envision a self-motivating quality in the ultimate reality which comes halfway to meet man.

Underhill C1961, 22) finds that some degree of ecstatic experience is known to nearly everyone, In those hours the world has seemed charged with a new vitality; with a splendour which does not belong to it but is poured through it, as a light through a coloured window, grace through a sacrament. . . . The seeing self is indeed an initiate thrust suddenly into the sanctuary of the mysteries: and feels the Mold awe and amaze­ ment" with which man encounters the Real. A well-known element of ecstasy is "grace." Like inspiration it is a quality which cannot be attained consciously. Conde (.1949, 80) defines it in the following manner: 163 La gracia es una sabiduria que trasciende del iluminado por ella, sin su conocimiento. El trascendido es un vidrio puro al que atraviesa el rayo divino, pero del cual, aunque vestido, s6lo tiene inconsciente conciencia.

Grace is wisdom which transcends the one illuminated by it without his knowledge. The one effected is a clear glass through which passes the divine ray, but of which, although permeated by it, he has only unconscious awareness.

Underhill C1961, 22), in her study, describes the world viewed by the ecstatic as "charged with a new vitality, as light through a coloured window ....11 For Conde (1949, 80} it is the ecstatic himself, "el trascendido," who becomes the glass, "al que atraviesa el rayo divino ... ." For both grace is the light of illumina­ tion causing empirical reality to seem charged with new meaning.

The awe and amazement known at such moments bespeak the presence of the numinous which Otto CI973, 12) named the mysterium tremendum:

The feeling of it may at times come sweeping like a gentle tide, pervading the mind with a tranquil mood of deepest worship. It may pass over into a more set and lasting attitude of the soul, continuing, as it were, thrillingly vibrant and resonant, until at last it dies away and the soul resumes its "profane," non-religious mood of everyday experience. It may burst in sudden eruption up from the depths of the soul with spasms and convulsions, or lead to the strangest excitements, to intoxicated frenzy, to transport, and to ecstasy. Johnston C1974, 10), who believes that mysticism "is no more than a very deep form of meditation," equates the 164 experience of the ecstatic with a knowing of the inner silence, "the silentium mysticum. It is a state of consciousness in which there may be no words or images.

Or if there are words, they spring from books or outside sources ..." (Johnston, 1974, 55).

Anguish may also enter into the inner silence, a fact of which Carmen Conde was fully aware. In Mi libro de El Escorial she contrasts the apparent peace of the contemplative's cell with the turbulent inner experience of ecstasy:

Lo divino no se nos da en la paz; el mismo Sxtasis que alleg6 a la divinidad a Teresa de Avila, a Juan de la Cruz, a Fray Luis de Granada, exigla un mlnimo de paz exterior: el cubo del convento; mas el profundo oleaje interior rebatia los muros del alma y de piedra. "No hay quietud en el que contempla; es un torrente el alma pensativa," comprendl yo hace muchos anos (Conde, 1949, 65).

Contemplatives, psychologists, and parapsychologists are all cognizant of the dangers of the inner world. We are reminded of Harding's (1973, 321) comment that "each of us who voluntarily or involuntarily explores the unconscious realm is abandoned to the danger of a direct experience of that mighty and awe-inspiring force." The numinous experience.is, by definition, larger than the personal ego, and so may overwhelm it.

Carmen Conde is a great admirer of the Spanish mystics and of Santa Teresa in particular. In her

"Confidencia literaria" she tells us that she placed a 165 reproduction of Santa Teresa, whom she regarded as her special protector, above the little table where at night she wrote poetry. "Santa Teresa estaba acompanada del

Esplritu Santo, que le dictaba. jC6mo le pedi yo la gracia de su soplo!" (.Conde, 1967, 243). Santa Teresa and

San Juan de la Cruz represent for Carmen Conde two different tendencies within Spanish mysticism. San Juan de la Cruz was chosen by God. "No hay libre albedrio en su bondad, en su perfecci6n: cumple ciegamente, no cabe para §1 la elecci6n, con la orden suprema que arcangeliz6 su voz"

(Conde, 1949, 86). Santa Teresa, on the other hand, repre­ sents the seeker who through discipline gradually attains to union with God. No vino la Gracia asi a Santa Teresa. Voluntad y muy firme voluntad fue la suya en alcanzarla. El relato sencillo, conmovedor, de su persistencia, ofrece una Gula para obtener la Gracia, hermoslsima. Ya en ella, hecho fulgurante contacto con su esencia, nos la describe con detalles tiernos. Vienen luego los arrobos, los gxtasis que son el continente delirante de la suspirada senora (Conde, 1949, 86).

In general terms, the mystical experience involves "the intuitive perception that we are part of a universe that is a unified whole" (Deikman, 1976, 68). Mystic and ecstatic share the perception of inner and outer reality as a unified whole or, stated another way, the distinction between "inner" and "outer" ceases to be relevant. 166 The true goal of the Mystic Way is Union, the

"permanent establishment of life upon transcendent levels of

reality, of which ecstasies give a foretaste to the soul" (Underhill, 1961, 170). There are several stages which precede enlightenment, and these have been variously defined

both by the scholars of mysticism and by the mystics them­

selves. Cruz (1964, 64) enumerates the traditional three stages of the Mystic Way: the Purgative Way, the Illumina­ tive Way, and the Unitive Way. The first two stages partake of the nature of ascetic practices, while the third is based solely on intuition. Following the French scientist Auguste Poulain,

Johnston (1974, 68-72) prefers a fourfold classification comprehending: the prayer of quiet, the prayer of union, ecstasy and transforming union. Underhill presents a scheme of five steps which, while not representative of the experiences of any one mystic, form a sort of composite picture. The most noteworthy aspect of this classification is that it reveals at once, "that the typical mystic seems to move towards his goal through a series of strongly marked oscillations between 'states of pleasure' and 'states of pain'" (Underhill, 1961, 168). In reviewing Underhill's scheme, it is important to note that ecstasy is a characteristic not of the final stage or Union but of the third stage, Illumination. 167 Furthermore, it is a state not infrequently experienced by the creative personality.

Illumination is the "contemplative state" par excellence. It forms, with the two preceding states, the "first mystic life." Many mystics never go beyond it; and, on the other hand, many seers and artists not usually classed amongst them, have shared, to some extent, the experiences of the illuminated state. Illumination brings a certain apprehension of the Absolute, a sense of the Divine presence; but not true union with it. It is a state of happiness (Underhill, 1961, 169). Among this group of artists of mystic inclination, we shall certainly find Carmen Conde.

Enlightenment may be sacred or profane. 15 Through the technique of contemplation artists participate in the Illumination known to religious mystics. Deikman (1976, 71, 72) defines contemplation as the "nonanalytic apprehen­ sion of an object or an idea—nonanalytic because dis­ cursive thought is given up and with it the ordinary attempt psychologically to grasp or manipulate the object of atten­ tion. " In contemplation both poet and mystic practice a form of renunciation which implies a basic change in attitude. Renunciation involves "a shift from doing to allowing, from grasping the world to allowing the world to enter us" (Deikman, 1976, 77).

15. Zaehner's (.1961) work, Mysticism Sacred and Profane, is based on precisely this distinction. 168 Deikman distinguishes two modes of consciousness, the active and the receptive (hence "bimodal"). The goal of contemplatives, poets and mystics alike is to function

through the receptive mode, to receive rather than to manipulate. In this state:

The sensory-perceptual system is usually the dominant agency rather than the muscle system. Base-line muscle tension tends to be decreased, compared to the tension found in the action mode, and the EEG tends to the slower frequencies of alpha and theta. Psychologically we find that attention is diffuse, boundary perception is decreased, paralogical thought processes are evident, and sensory qualities dominate over the formal (Deikman, 1976, 78).

Thus we find that the contemplative behaves differ­ ently toward his environment. Instead of attempting to act upon it in an aggressive, ego-dominated fashion, the contemplative adopts an attitude of quiet alertness, allowing the environment to act upon him or to enter into

him. It is this reversal of thought patterns and the

subsequent flowing in of the environment, the activation of the receptive mode, which permits the contemplative to comprehend a new and different level of reality.

Where others have failed to apprehend the Ultimate Reality, the mystics succeed, Underhill (1961, 24) observes,

because their method is based, "not in logic but in life: in the existence of a discoverable 'real,' a spark of true being, within the seeking subject, which can . . . fuse itself with and thus apprehend the reality of the sought 169 object." The mystic, in other words, is able to relinquish the "active mode" for the "receptive mode." In so doing he eschews both the illusions with which the ego deceives itself and the sterility of conceptual thinking which pertains to a one-sided development of the logos function. Watts (1969, 205) comments: The idealisms which civilization produces are strivings of the alienated soul against death, and because their appeal is to hostility, to fear, to pity (which is also fear), or to duty, they can never arouse the energy of life itself--Eros— which alone has the power to put reason into practice.

Carmen Conde has with great clarity pinpointed the presence of the feminine principle in the lives of the mystics. Following Ortega y Gasset she declares that the destiny of woman is entregarse, while that of man is apoderarse, adding that "Los mlsticos, seres llenos de la Gracia, tenlan todos el destino de la entrega" (Conde, 1949, 103). Through the experience first of ecstasy and subse­ quently of union, the mystic overcomes the illusion of duality and attains to the experience of life as unity. Eliade has found the notion of the coincidentia oppositorum, the union of opposites, to be a constant theme in legends, rites and mystical techniques the world over. The recur­ rence of the theme stresses . . . man's deep dissatisfaction with his actual situation, with what is called the human condition. Man feels himself torn and separate ... he feels 170 himself to be cut off from "something" powerful, "something" utterly other than himself, and at othertimes from an indefinable timeless "state," of which he has no precise memory, but which he does however remember in the depths of his being: a primordial state which he enjoyed before Time, before History (Eliade, 1969, 122).

Underhill points to the same feeling of separation when she defines pain as evidence of disharmony between the self and empirical reality. It can be obliterated only by

. .a deliberate and careful adjustment of the self to the world of sense, or, that self must turn from the sense- world to some other with which it is in tune" (Underhill, 1961, 19).

In Psychic Energy Harding (1973, 241) describes in psychological terms how a barrier is established between the conscious and unconscious minds: In the outer world the ego seeks to dominate its environment and to subject all things, persons, and conditions alike to its interest. In the inner world, as many psychic contents as possible are brought under its control, and those which cannot be dominated are suppressed. In this way a threshold is built up between the conscious and the unconscious part of the psyche.

When this sense of division is projected into the world of myth, creation is interpreted as division. We refer once more to Eliade (1969, 115): A great number of creation-myths present the original state—"Chaos"—as a compact and homogenous mass in which no form would be dis­ tinguished; or as an egg-like sphere in which Sky and Earth were united, or as a giant man, etc. In all these myths Creation takes place by the division of the egg into two parts, 171

representing Sky and Earth—or by the breaking up of the Giant, or by the fragmentation of the unitary mass.

The problem arises because the ego in its attempt to dominate empirical reality garners its information about the nature of that reality through the senses and the senses

are a limited source. Underhill (1961, 6) comments on the fact that the apparently real external world ". . . cannot be the external world, but only the Self's projected picture of it." Watts (1969, 96, 97) addresses himself to the same confusion pointing out that all perception of empirical reality really is the state of the organism which perceives it: IAJ11 our sensory experiences are states of the nervous system. The field of vision, which we take to be outside the organism, is in fact inside it because it is a translation of the external world into the form of the eye and the optical nerves. What we see is therefore a state of the organism, a state of ourselves. What mystics, ecstatics and contemplatives have in common, then, is the desire to attain unity, and their method of perception takes them beyond the cultural assump­ tions which imply duality. The Imitatio Christi proper to the non-dual knowledge of Homo Dei must be to recognize the personality of the god or goddess Eros-Amor, Kosmogonos, not where it can be neither sought nor found, "out there" somewhere, in transcendence, but—as Christ did--in oneself (Campbell, 1973, 647).

A similar recommendation is made by Conde (1949,

143): 172 Percibir media docena de misterios es auscultar no sfilo el corazSn de la noche, sino durante largo tiempo el coraz6n que se nos mueve dentro. Ahondar en uno es buscar a Dios. Buscar a Dios es creer en El. Tener fe, en lo divino o en lo humano—que es igual--, es lo mejor que puede elegir el hombre. In the preceding pages we have examined the many aspects of ecstasy and seen it described variously as psychic union, trance, a state of grace, an "act of percep­ tion" accompanying illumination, and the altered state of consciousness attained through meditation. We have observed that it may be unpremeditated or that it may be the culmination of discipline as in the case of meditation. Although we shall have occasion to refer to all of the different aspects and techniques of ecstasy here mentioned, the definition which seems best to fit the phenomenon as it appears in the poetry of Carmen Conde is that of William

Johnston. Following the original meaning of the Greek ekstasis "standing out," he understands ecstasy to be a

"going out from, or relinquishing of, the self""^ (Johnston, 1974, 73). I believe that underlying the unimportant physical phenomena is a spiritual experience of the greatest significance. . . . It is an experi­ ence that is undoubtedly present also in the deepest stages of Zen: an extraordinarily powerful uprising of spirit in the human mind and heart and

16. The word "self" as used in this passage by Johnston is synonymous wirh the ego-orientation and must be distinguished from the term "Self" as used by Jung and U^derhill to refer to the entirety of the personality. 173 the transition to a new level of consciousness. It is this that I call ecstasy (Johnston, 1974, 73).

We are now in a position to see how this "going out" occurs in the poetry of Carmen Conde and how the ecstatic experience entails the perception of the universe as a unified ground, thereby overcoming the duality of flesh and spirit. We shall examine first a poem entitled

"Conocimiento."

De antes de la sangre que me hizo viene este resuello sin reposo. Como si todas las mujeres abrazadas, nunca viva y clamorosamente, hubieran entregado el fondo de sus vidas: hasta la tierra Svida de la tumba, hasta el delirio en que las bocas prorrumpen cuando se presiente el paralso del amor que abrasa. cQu6 pozo hay al pie de mi existencia humana? £Qu§ mano desaloja mi cSntaro de jdbilos? ;0h sed de aquella voz que me rebosel

Abrir en una llama, abrir en un rocio ... Estar contenida, limitada, poselda por una forma Gnica. Retroceder la inquietud de origen, la tremenda inquietud de la carne y del esplritu. jQuedarme en £xtasis eterno! (Conde, 1967, 276). In "Conocimiento," we find that Conde (1967, 276) addresses herself precisely to the problem of Eros and Logos to which she refers in the last strophe of the poem as "la tremenda / inquietud de la carne y del esplritu." Conse­ quently, ecstasy, as it appears in this poem, becomes the 174 specific means for resolving the conflict which modern woman may experience. The first strophe stresses the importance of the

eternal feminine through the image of sisterhood, "todas las mujeres abrazadas." From before the time of her birth, down through the generations of woman, comes "este resuello

sin reposo." Resuello is defined as "aliento o respiraci6n,

especialmente la violenta" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "resuello"). We have already noted the connection between breath and the word in the creative 17 act. The "resuello sin reposo," then, conveys a sacred message of an exclusively feminine nature from one genera­ tion of women to the next. Here is the secret of Eros, the principle of psychic relatedness which is the meaningful

center of woman's life. It is as though, Conde (.1967, 276) tells us, these women had passed along "el fondo de sus

vidas," the deepest part, the very feminine essence which we

can see as composed of archetypal elements. The message is transmitted in a whisper, "nunca viva y clamorosamente,"

that is, in a way not obvious to the ego-intellect. Its

contents are sacred and so not intelligible to the uniniti­ ated. The first line of the poem, "De antes de la sangre que me hizo" (Conde, 1967, 27 6)_, suggests that this knowl­ edge is borne in the bloodstream as it is a chthonic

17. Spiritus "spirit" literally means "breath of air" or "breathing." 175 message. By contrast, in a poem entitled "Clamor en

Castilla," the notion of clamor itself is associated with the fullness of the word of God (Logos) spread joyfully thro, "h the heavens. Addressing the archangel Conde (1967, 258) says: "jSi yo volara como tCi, si yo subiera / un clamor del Verbo inmenso por los aires!"

Such is not the case with the "underground" message of the feminine, passed in the act of creation from sister to sister. The verb entregar emphasizes the receptivity and the openness of the recipient to the message. We have already observed that Conde (194 9, 102) considers the destiny of both women and mystics to be that of la entrega, a yielding to the creative contents of the unconscious, and that this orientation is that of Deikman's "receptive mode," opening oneself to the world, or to grace, rather than attempting aggressively to seize hold of it. In "Conocimiento" we find stressed the receptiveness of the poet, in particular, but also that of women in general to the archetypal feminine, which is the inner manifestation of Eros. In defining the essence of the feminine, the poet mentions two elements associated with important moments of transition in the course of human life: death and passion.

The essence of a woman's life includes: hasta la tierra Svida de la tumba, hasta el delirio en que las bocas 176 prorrumpen cuando se presiente el paralso del amor que abrasa (Conde, 1967, 276). The "avid earth of the grave" referring to death, suggests the gateway to another reality. This passage to another realm is stressed by the adjective civida. The earth is eager to mix with or absorb the decomposing corpse.

Through death the immortal spirit is symbolically freed from the body, which by means of a series of chemical changes, begins the journey to its original state. If the soul knows ecstasy through death, the body knows it through passion. hasta el delirio en que las bocas prorrumpen cuando se presiente el paralso del amor que abrasa (Conde, 1967, 276). Delirio is defined as "Desorden o perturbaci6n de la raz6n o de la fantasia, originado de una enfermedad o una pasi6n violenta" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "delirio"). Here the poet stresses passion as a passage to ecstasy. Deikman (1976, 84) indicates that it is perfectly possible to enter into ecstasy through sexual intercourse and that this variety of the experience is probably the one known to the greatest number of people.

The essence of the feminine is the energy of Eros, the capacity on one or a number of levels to disintegrate, to merge, to experience transformation. Ill The persistence of the "resuello sin reposo," which comes to the poet from primordial times, prompts her to ask: "

1967, 276). The hand which upsets her "cSntaro de jGbilos" is a metaphor for the whisper that comes to her from ages past bearing the secrets of the woman's way. It dislodges the vessel of joy or unsettles the equilibrium of her psyche, terminating the era of childish innocence and fantasies. The message of Eros tells her that she must get on with the business of being a woman. She responds eagerly, anxious to hear the voice implied by the resuello, "jOh sed de aquella voz que me rebose!" (Conde, 1967, 276). The poet's diction is unconventional. The line would normally read: "jOh sed de que aquella voz me rebose!" "I thirst to be overflowing with that voice'." The voice of Eros prompts woman to transformation. Abrir en una llama, abrir en un roclo ... Estar contenida, limitada, poselda por una forma tinica (Conde, 1967, 276).

To burst into flame symbolically is to attain transcendence. This is the metaphor chosen by Cruz (1964, 178 106) to describe the soul in intimate union with God, "Y en este encendido grado se ha de entender que habla el alma aqul, ya tan transformada y calificada interiormente en fuego de amor, que no s6lo est& unida en este fuego, sino que hace ya viva llama en ella." To burst into flame and to dew are really two ways to express the same process.

Cirlot (1962, s.v. "dew") comments that dew alludes to spiritual illumination, "since it is the true forerunner of dawn and of the approaching day." The experience of ecstasy imbues the poet with a sense of the oneness of the universe. She feels contained by and at the same time becomes the perfect form.

In her "Confidencia literaria" Carmen Conde comments on these lines from "Conocimiento," relating them expressly to her literary art and the tendency she had to experiment with different forms of literary expression.

Quisiera cuajar en una manera y seguirla hasta dominarla. Pero esa condici6n expresa no me es asequible durante mucho tiempo. La vida es demasiada (sic) rica y yo muy enamoradiza suya para limitarme a percibirla e interpretarla de un solo modo (Conde, 1967, 248).

For the writer, attaining the perfect form means discovering and then perfecting the genre most suited to her genius. Spiritually, finding the perfect form means transcending empirical reality. 179 Retroceder la inquietud de origen, la tremenda inquietud de la carne y del esplritu. iQuedarme en extasis eterno! CConde, 1967, 276). In this way the poet transcends the duality of spirit and matter or soul and body and overcomes the

cultural implications of the Doctrine of Original Sin.

"Liberation is not the release of the soul from the body,"

as Watts (1969, 199) observes, "it is recovery from the tactical split between the soul and the body which seems

to be necessary for the social discipline of the young."

We can understand the first and last strophes of

"Conocimiento" as contrasting the mystic stages of illumina­

tion and union. The passion of the kiss and the ecstasy of the sexual experience provide, as Underhill (1961, 170) points out, a foretaste of the joys of Union. It is the experience of illumination, associated with ecstasy which

provides the poet with intuitive knowledge, here conocimiento, making her aware that in this transcendent reality, the conflicts which have rent the soul of woman are resolved and the wounds healed. Ecstasy prefigures psychic equilibrium and peace. Thus she would like to remain "en €xtasis eterno!" (Conde, 1967, 276). CHAPTER 7

THE WORLD AXIS: IFACH

In "Conocimiento" we have seen how ecstasy serves to resolve the conflict of Eros and Logos there postulated as the duality of spirit and flesh. In the following pages we shall examine the function of ecstasy in conjunction with three archetypes each implying spiritual transformation.

Those symbols are: the world axis, the vessel, and the inner light.

The symbolic attributes of the cosmic mountain, one of the manifestations of the world axis, dominate a long prose poem entitled "Ifach: declamaci6n." Esta caliente multitud de aguas que fecunda tus ralces, amante de la continuidad del verde mar y traspasada tierra, me ha cogido entre sus brazos para conocimiento eterno de mi cuerpo terrenal y de mi alma abierta en espacios, Ir por tu agua, mano derecha que enciende azules morenos y azules inocentes como palomas blancas; por tu espalda de abismo con posibles gritos de barcos arrebatados en hermosura; por tu costado de veleros anclados en las viejas cartas de marear, donde aprendieron los griegos este camino con ansia de nubes, donde yo, amante, ardo en mdsica continua de alegrla. Bien s£ que tu mismo suelo de mar, atravesado por peces que llegan desde Sicilia, sabe de otras orillas que plantas yodadas se adaptan para asegurarle a la tierra su entrega. Mas jcuSnto mejor que nadie podrSs tG, si te desprendes con alas, decir allci arriba de tu vuelo el cfincavo

180 arder de los pies que se te ajustaron sosteniendo cuerpos que, cual el mio, llevaban ojos elgctricos de maravxlla!

TG sabes de las plantas aligeras, que son sobre tu carne una brisa de danza, y que suben, suben, bailando tu aire; y con ellas tu tierra se alivia del peso mineral de tu figura. Tti sabes de unos pies cigiles, pero posesivos de lo que hollan, ascendi^ndote para desde ti ser duenos de todos los carainos calientes de tus aguas llenas de sabidurla ... Y de los pies que gravitan de tal oscuro modo, que a cada paso tta te hundlas bajo ellos, dejcindote hoyos que s61o la dulce lluvia de la espuma colmaba de blancor.

Yo quiero, Ifach, ceriirte mis pies, que no vacilarSn jamSs por sus senderos, y trasvasarte mi recien nacida sangre de amor, incorporSndome tu altiva serenidad de torreSn de los azules. dQue pueden saber aquellos a cuya oreja no han llegado tus caracolas de esta fe que realza mi alma y lahace hialina y la turba de nubes contornadas de oro, y la hiere del gozo que s61o tu antiguor de pastor de distancias sabe interpretar como un dios?

Suben los siglos amantes y te enriquecen con fortuna de olivos y de almendros, con el tesoro de plata gritadora de las barcas repletas de peces. Vienen los hombres azuleando sorpresa en sus ojos fatigados de tierra liana, y se te acercan las mujeres m&s sensibles para esta Cinica sagrada posesion de tu verticalidad sobre el mar.

Pero s61o yo estoy, humilde de los dones mSs visibles, pequena y latida en oleadas de §xtasis, aqui, presta como nadie nunca a sentirte en todo el mSgico volumen que, siendo inmenso, cabe en mi alma sin cuerpo posible que la limite.

Y es por ello que tu sal y tu yodo, y tu sonrisa de poderlo, serein siempre mi mayor tesoro, Y yo el tuyo. (sic), menos poderoso, pero ardiente voz que te cante. Porque cantarte ser£ ir con mi amor y mi delirio en hondo yalado posesivo, jcontigo, Ifach!, por el camino espeso de vides, que es la eternidad tuya (Conde, 1967, 170-71). 182

The importance of the motif of ecstasy is immediately apparent from the manner in which the poet describes her­ self. In the second paragraph, she envisions herself as a lover burning, "en mtisica continua de alegrla" (Conde, 1967, 170). Subsequently, she mentions that her eyes are

"elictricos de maravilla!" (Conde, 1967, 170). Finally, toward the conclusion of the poem, we see her "... pequena y latida en oleadas de extasis ..." (Conde, 1967, 171). We call it ecstasy inspired by nature.

On the southeastern coast of Spain, not far from

Alicante, the Pefia de Ifach rises some 325 meters above the sea. This is the promontory which forms the setting for the poem, "Ifach: declamaci6n" and which, in our view, has all the symbolic attributes of the world axis. In myth, legend and folklore the universe is arranged in three layers: underworld, earth and sky, which rest one upon the other. The world axis, variously represented as tree, pillar, temple, palace or the cosmic mountain unites these strata, i.e., represents a means of communication between them.

"Hell, the center of the earth, and the 'gate' of the sky are situated on the same axis, and it is along this axis that passage from one cosmic region to another was effected" CEliade, 1965, 13). As we examine the. poem to the rock of

Ifach, we shall have occasion to note that Carmen Conde is concerned with passage from one cosmic zone to another. Of 183 paramount importance is the motif of symbolic ascendance, which leads to a "higher consciousness."

Traditionally, the person who ascends the cosmic mountain or climbs the cosmic tree is the shaman. "The preeminently shamanic technique is the passage from one cosmic region to another--from earth to the sky or from earth to the underworld" (Eliade, 1972, 259). In making this journey, the shaman establishes himself as one apart, able to communicate with gods and able to restore mythical time, for the principal purpose of the shaman's journey is to return to the harmony which existed before creation brought strife and division into the world. Through ecstasy the shaman restores communication between heaven and earth.

Temporarily and for a limited number of persons—the shamans—ecstasy reestablishes the primordial condition of all mankind. In this respect, the mystical experience of the "primitives" is a return to origins, a reversion to the mystical age of the lost paradise (Eliade, 1972, 486).

While Carmen Conde may not be concerned with the lost paradise as such, she does seek the timelessness that is associated with pre-ontological consciousness. "Porque cantarte serS ir con mi amor y mi delirio en hondo calado posesivo, jcontigo, Ifach!, por el camino espeso de vides, que es la eternidad tuya" (Conde, 1967, 171). Ecstasy is the technique most frequently elaborated by Carmen Conde in her poetry as a means for healing the psychic split. In "Ifach: declamaciSn," the poet experiences 184 in her mind the overpowering effect of the peak much as the shaman experiences ascent. The term shaman, derived from the language of the Arctic Tungus, refers to "one who is excited, moved or raised" (Lewis, 1971, 51). For Eliade the shaman belongs to a special category of the elect or privileged specifically because of his ecstatic technique.

They are not alone in being able to fly up to heaven or to reach it by means of a tree, a ladder or the like; other privileged persons can match them here—sovereigns, heroes, initiates. The shamans differ from the other privileged categories by their particular technique, which is ecstasy (Eliade, 1972, 493).

Poet and shaman, then, both employ the technique of ecstasy, and for both it is a means of healing. Through trance the shaman may safely abandon his own body, journey through other cosmic zones, converse with deities and return with the knowledge essential to cure himself or to cure others. The shaman represents the wounded healer, for his own election or inclination to the chamanic calling is often viewed as a sickness. Through his auto-initiation he learns to master his own afflictions and is subsequently regarded as one prepared to heal others. The sharnan is not the slave, but the master of anomaly and chaos. The transcendental mystery which lies at the heart of his vocation is the healer's passion; his ultimate triumph over the chaotic experience of raw power which threatened to drag him under (Lewis, 1971, 188). 185 Eliade sees the shaman above all as a master of the human soul and a healer supremely aware of the conflicts which may endanger it.

Everything that concerns the soul and its adventure, here on earth and in the beyond, is the exclusive province of the shaman. Through his own preinitiatory and initiatory experiences, he knows the drama of the human soul, its instability, its precariousness; in addition, he knows the forces that threaten it and the regions to which it can be carried away (Eliade, 1972, 216}.

Finally, we should like to point out that it is the special province of the soul which is of interest to Carmen Conde in "Ifach: Declamaci6n." In the first paragraph, we learn that the sea has caught her in its arms, "para conocimiento eterno de mi cuerpo terrenal y de mi alma abierta en espacios" (Conde, 1967, 170). Later she speaks of a special faith, which "realza mi alma y la hace hialina y la turba de nubes contornadas de oro, y la hiere del gozo ..." (Conde, 1967, 171). In this regard we must pause to consider Nicoll's definition of faith as a form of perception. The original significance of the word, he tells us, "seems to have been mental--mental perception of the reality of the invisible. Faith is another form of under­ standing, through which force enters us" (Nicoll, 1952, 210). In other words, it is Carmen Conde's heightened perception of the unity of reality which fills her soul with joy. This realization is triggered by the experience of listening to the echo of the sea in a shell ("

its roots. It is from this perspective as well that the poet undertakes her meditation. She is a swimmer immersed in the continuity of her geography, gazing upwards at the height of the rock, which she later refers to as "esta tinica sagrada posesi6n de tu verticalidad sobre el mar"

CConde, 1967, 171). The symbolism of the swimmer floating in the sea indicates that the poet already perceives the world as' a unity and it is the ecstatic nature of this per­ ception which fills her with joy, "mtisica continua de alegrla" CConde, 1967, 170). The notion of unity is underlined in the first paragraph by the word "continuidad," perhaps the single most important word. The poet describes the rock as "amante de la continuidad del verde mar y traspasada tierra ..."

CConde, 1967, 170). Whereas the rock physically occupies a boundary location, forming a noticeable break between land and sea, it is not this symbolic possibility which the poet wishes to emphasize. Rather, she underlines the idea of unity by stating that land and sea are a continuity. The concept is further elaborated by the fact that she herself, 187 as swimmer, is physically immersed in the scenario she is

describing. Thus, we have from the beginning, clear

evidence that would indicate the prevalence of what Deikman

calls the receptive mode of behavior. We may compare what

he says of a monk meditating in a garden to Carmen Conde's experience at Ifach.

If he is deeply into that mode, his state of consciousness may feature a marked decrease in the distinction between himself and his environment to the extent that he merges with it or has a nonverbal (ineffable) perception of unity, or both (Deikman, 1976, 80).

Emphasizing the fundamental importance of the perception of unity, Watts (1969, 131-32) comments, "Man is an 'I am' not as a detached ego but as being-in-the-"

world, with emphasis on the dynamic, process character of

being and on the fact that this being is necessarily in relation to a world." The basic assumption of the poem, then, is the identification of poet and nature resulting

in the ecstatic perception of reality as a unified field.

The change of orientation undergone by the swimmer

is emphasized as well in a poem from Los poemas de mar menor CI962). In "Incorporacion a tu esencia," Carmen Conde comments to the sea: Para aliviarme de este peso de mi entrego a tu densor fabuloso completa inmovilidad. Y ando (Conde, 1967, 747).

The poet reclines and floats on the sea. To move within the sea she must relinquish the forward-moving, 188 aggressive stride of the walker and let the sea move her.

Similarly, the ecstatic relinquishes the aggressive dictates of the ego and lets the surrounding environment invade him. When this change takes place, the entire process of percep­

tion is different. The poem concludes:

iOjos los mlos que se abren ciertos dentro de ti; videntes de ti, tuyos y realizados ojos de la inmortal esperal (Conde, 1967, 747).

In the water her eyes become "videntes." She is a seer.

They gaze upon timelessness, "la inmortal espera," and they are fulfilled by this perception, "realizados."

In the Ifach poem, we learn that she has been caught up by the waters of the sea, "para conocimiento

eterno de mi cuerpo terrenal y de mi alma abierta en espacios" (Conde, 1967, 170). Once more we find the word "conocimiento" in conjunction with an altered state of consciousness. Through surrender of the ego orientation, which we can imagine symbolized by the walker rather than the swimmer, she is to gain new knowledge of both body and soul. While the former is associated with the land and the latter with air, "abierta en espacios," it is important to note that they are not split off from each other. Immersion in the sea will lend a new context and new knowledge of

both.

Another symbolic configuration of importance in "Ifach: Declamaci6n" is that associated with the foot. We 189 must note at the outset that the foot represents the con­ junction of two symbolic systems, one associated with the earth, the other associated with the human body. For that reason, Jung (1967, 239) comments that in dreams it is associated with "earthly reality and often has a generative or phallic significance.11 Cirlot observes that the foot is an ambivalent symbol. Its meaning will vary according to which group of symbols it is associated with for matters of interpretation. Thus, while on the one hand it may refer to man's relationship with the earth, on the other, it may be a symbol of the soul, "because it serves as the support of the body in the sense of keeping man upright" (Cirlot,

1962, s.v. "foot"). Beginning in the third paragraph, we notice a series of five references to the foot evoking different symbolic contexts. Carmen Conde first mentions "el c6ncavo arder de los pies que se te ajustaron sosteniendo cuerpos que, cual el mio, llevaban ojos electricos de maravilla" (Conde, 1967, 170). We are to imagine that the rock acquires wings, rises into the air, and from this perspective views the visitors who climb it. Some experience an emotion similar to that of the poet. Here we may see the foot related to the soul as previously mentioned by Cirlot. The support motif of the foot "sosteniendo cuerpos" is stressed, as is the ecstatic condition of the body. The poet mentions the "c6ncavo 190

arder," the arched burning or passion of these feet, as well

as the eyes electric with miracles that the body bears. In specifying the foot rather than some other part

of the body, the poet looks at the human rather as the rock

might, for it is the foot of the person which comes into direct contact with the soil. "Tfl sabes de las plantas

allgeras, que son sobre tu car'ne una brisa de danza, y que suben, suben, bailando tu aire; y con ellas tu tierra se

alivia del peso mineral de tu figura" (Conde, 1967, 171). The word planta may refer both to "parte inferior del pie, con que se pisa, y sobre la cual se sostiene el

cuerpo," and "vegetal ser orgSnico" (Diccionario general

ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "planta"). It is our contention that it refers to both, nor does it seem

out of keeping with the ecstatic moment experienced, that Carmen Conde should capitalize on both meanings of the word, elaborating in synthetic form a double image.

The "plantas aligeras," winged soles, are a reference to Greek mythology. The winged feet are an attribute of the Greed god, Hermes, son of Zeus and the Naiad Maia. As messenger of the gods, Hermes is, as it were a Greek angel. He was considered the discoverer of

music because he was the inventor of two important musical

instruments, the lyre and the shepherd's pipe. In this respect we must point out that the poet also associates

herself with music, "porque cantarte serS ir con mi amor y 191 mi delirio en hondo calado posesivo" (Conde, 1967, 171). Next, we must notice Hermes' role as the god of dreams and

sleep who, "with one touch of his staff . . . can close or open the eyes of mortals" CSeyffert, 1956, s.v. "Hermes").

While in "Ifach: Declamaci6n," we are not concerned specifically with sleep, we are concerned with ecstasy which implies the attainment of a different level of consciousness, a process which may be compared to that which occurs when the body sleeps or dreams and dualistic consciousness ceases to function. Finally, we must comment on Hermes' function as god of the roads. "As he is the guide of the living on their way, so is he also the conductor of the souls of the dead in the nether-world (Psychopompos) ..." CSeyffert, 1956, s.v. "Hermes") and in this respect his function is like that of the shaman. That Carmen Conde is specifically interested in what happens to the soul in the presence of the rock we have already established.

Consequently, it seems appropriate that through the image of the winged foot, she should evoke the figure of the god Hermes and all that is associated with him. A second motif which we must point out in associa­ tion with this image is that of the dance. On the flesh of the rock the winged feet are "una brisa de danza," which ascend "bailando." Here we must note how Jung interprets the generative power of the foot. 192 It is not only the feet themselves that have a fertility significance, it also seems to extend to their activity, treading .... The foot and the treading movement are invested with a phallic significance, or with that of re-entry into the womb, so that the rhythm of the dance transports the dancer into an unconscious state (Jung, 1967, 315). The ritual of the dance induces a trance-like state.

Carmen Conde's dancer, however, has already passed beyond the moment of entry into trance, for the poet speaks of

baile; that is, euphoria itself.

As Conde (1967, 171) continues elaborating the foot symbol, we learn that Ifach has experienced two other sorts of feet: "unos pies Sgiles" and "los pies que gravitan de tal oscuro modo, que a cada paso tft te hundlas bajo ellos,

dejcindote hoyos ... ." The agile feet belong to poets and

ecstatics, those who ascend the rock dancing. The heavy, plodding feet are those of the average tourist whose spirit is not moved by the lofty eminence of the rock. The two kinds of treading represent two sorts of world view. The change from the present tense to the imperfect: "que a cada paso tti te hundlas bajo ellos," "that at each step you used to sink beneath them," indicates that the poet associates herself with those of the agile feet.

The action which causes the formation of the hollows seems initiated as much by the rock as by the person who steps, "Y de los pies que gravitan de tal oscuro modo, que a cada paso tti te hundlas bajo ellos ..." (Conde, 1967, 171). 193 This phrasing stresses the notion of the world as a unified ground. In this regard we may note Watts' (1969, 144) remarks about the nature of boundaries,

If we define the organism by a complex boundary—the eternal skin, the skins of internal organs as well, down to the very surfaces of cells and molecules—its behavior will consist in the movements of this boundary. But the boundary of the organism is also the boundary of its environment as well . . . we gain better under­ standing by describing this boundary and its movements as belonging to both the organism and its environment, but that we do not ascribe the origin of movement to either side.

Finally, to the many other feet that have trod upon the rock, the poet would add her own. "Yo quiero, Ifach, cenirte mis pies ..." CConde, 1967, 171). Among the feet specified in relation to Ifach are the "plantas allgeras," associated with Hermes, which brings us next to comment upon the references in the poem to the ancient Greeks. One side of the rock is associated with sailing vessels anchored on old navigation charts,

"donde aprendieron los griegos este cam ino con ansia de nubes ..." (Conde, 1967, 170). The Greeks have a relation­ ship to the rock which is both historical and symbolic. To the Greek traders of antiquity the rock was known as Calpe, meaning "Columna agraciada" (Enciclopedia universal ilustrada, 1925, s,v. "Ifach"). The name Ifach is of

Libyan origin (Enciclopedia universal ilustrada, 1925, s.v. "Ifach"), It is thought that Ifach was probably the seat of the Greek colony of Alonis. Around the base of the 194 rock one can see the ruins of an early town and on the nearby beach of Bou there are others which are now partly beneath the waters of the sea.

On an historical level Ifach represents one of the western outposts of the ancient world, and the Greeks were the explorers of that world. Both on maps, "las viejas cartas de marear," and in the mind, they charted the voyages of exploration now undertaken by the poet in the psyche.

We have seen the rock of Ifach described in organic terms. The poet makes reference to its roots, its back, its side, its flesh, and its figure. She also speaks of its spiritual qualities. Its waters are "llenas de sabidurla." It is serene and knows how to interpret the state of her soul "como un dios." Its height above the sea is described as being sacred. These are the qualities which attract the poet and make her want to press her feet against it. "Yo quiero, Ifach, cenirte mis pies, que no vacilar&n jamSs por sus senderos, y trasvasarte mi reci£n nacida sangre de amor, incorporSndome tu altiva serenidad de torre6n de los azules" CConde, 1967, 171). The foot represents the place of contact through which an exchange of vital qualities will take place. She will infuse the rock with her passion and in its place will experience the serenity which she attributes to the peak. 195

This sharing of qualities suggests a state of

participation mystique which Jung (1969, 504), after Levy- Bruhl, defines as "unconscious identity." Levy-Bruhl found

this condition to be a cultural condition of primitive peoples.

Among such people, whose consciousness is at a different level of development from ours, the "soul" (or psyche) is not felt to be a unit. Many primitives assume that a man has a "bush soul" as well as his own, and that this bush soul is incarnate in a wild animal or a tree, with which the human individual has some kind of psychic identity (Jung, 1964, 24).

Jung C1969, 504n) notes with some regret that toward the end of his career and as a consequence of the criticism of his colleagues, Levy-Bruhl withdrew the term that he had created. Defending the validity of the term, Jung (1969, 221n) goes even further to state:

The idea of unity should not, however, be regarded as "primitive" but rather as showing that participation mystique is a characteristic of symbols in general. The symbol always includes the unconscious, hence man too is contained in it. The numinosity of the symbol is an expression of this fact.

For this reason and because the unconscious is as important a factor in the composition of the self as it is in the undifferentiated psyche, it continues to create in the integrated personality that experience of participation mystique which is, "the unity of many, the one in all men" CJung, 1969, 276L, Thus, psychologically, we can understand 196 participation mystique as being a phenomenon relevant to all men and particularly to poets. Carmen Conde's sharing of qualities with the rock of

Ifach results in an ineffable experience. Her soul is wounded with joy. Whereas in the first paragraph she states

that the sea has caught her up in its arms, "para conocimiento eterno de mi cuerpo terrenal y de mi alma abierta en espacios" (Conde, 1967, 170), toward the end of

the poem we note that the ratio between body and soul has changed. In ecstasy her soul, "sin cuerpo posible que la

limite" (Conde, 1967, 171), has no limits. The field of participation mystique is the special

province of magic. For the primitive this may mean effecting some sort of witchcraft by an act perpetrated against the animal or tree that is one's brother. ". . .an injury to the bush soul is interpreted as an injury to the man" (Jung, 1964, 24). Magic functions, Neumann (1970, 282) explains, through correspondence, Logical contraries united in participation mystique—that is the law of this magical world where everything is full of holy workings. There is no hard and fast division of the holy from the unholy, the divine from the human, the human from the animal. The world is still bathed in a medium in which everything changes into everything and acts upon everything.

In examining the changes which occur as a result of the poet's participation mystique with the rock, we note that she specifically applies the adjective "magic" to the 197 rock in referring to its size which is "inmenso." In the fluid world of participation mystique there is no contradic­ tion in stating that the huge rock fits into her soul.

Pero s6lo estoy, humilde de los dones mSs visibles, pequena y latida en oleadas de £xtasis, aqui, presta como nadie nunca a sentirte en todo el mSgico volumen que, siendo inmenso, cabe en mi alma sin cuerpo posible que la limite (Conde, 1967, 171). The references in the poem to classical antiquity,

interspersed with descriptions of the emotions the poet

experiences at the present moment make us constantly aware

of passing time. The rock which causes the poet to flame with song is also the site of ancient shipwrecks, "posibles gritos de barcos arrebatados en hermosura" (Conde, 1967, 170), and is the site around which the Greeks charted ancient voyages. Other references to time also draw attention to the passing years. "Suben los siglos amantes ..." (Conde, 1967, 171). Centuries ascend the rock and the passing of time has seen it enriched with olives, almonds, and fish, the traditional products of that region of Spain. Visitors have come and gone, enjoying a brief encounter with the rock. Men arrive weary from the flat land, their eyes turning blue with surprise. The poet uses the normally intransitive verb azulear: "mostrar alguna cosa el color azul que en si tiene" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola,

1970, s.v. "azulear"), transitively to indicate the inner change which may overcome one in the presence of the rock. 198 The most sensitive women also climb the rock in order to experience the ecstasy of ascension. For these indi­ viduals as for the poet, the vertical rock is more than simply a promontory of land. They comprehend the symbolic implications of the vertical lines. For them, the rock truly is a world axis or a cosmic mountain. In contrast to the references to passing time, there are many allusions in the poem to eternity. The poet has been caught in the arms of the sea, "para conocimiento eterno de mi cuerpo terrenal y de mi alma ..." (Conde, 1967, 170) for the timeless knowledge of body and spirit. At the end of the poem the eternity motif reappears. Speaking to Ifach, she makes reference to the "camino espeso de vides, que es la eternidad tuya" (Conde, 1967,

171). This insistence upon the theme of eternity leads perforce to a discussion of what the term is generally construed as meaning, and what meaning it has for the poet.

In Living Time and the Integration of the Life Maurice Nicoll equates the words eternal and eternity with an ideal and unchanging order behind the world of passing time. In "Ifach: Declamaci6n" the poet refers to a break­ through in plane which will lead to the experience of a new level of consciousness. This upward motion is symbolized by the vertical rock. Like the shaman, the poet ascends via the symbolism of the world axis, using these images to portray an inner process. "Degrees of ascent," Nicoll (1952, 199 192) comments, "are discontinuous, i.e., inwardly experienced, they correspond to entirely new states of the individual."

The secular notion of eternity is illustrated in the Grimm tale, "The Shepherd Boy," where it is described as cumulative:

In Lower Pomerania is the Diamond Mountain, which is two miles high, two miles wide, and two miles deep; every hundred years a little bird comes and sharpens its beak on it, and when the whole mountain is worn away by this, then the first second of eternity will be over (Grimm's Fairy Tales, 1944, #152).

By contrast the sacred notion of eternity does not comprehend the idea of passing time. "It is an ontological,

Parmenidean time? it always remains equal to itself, it neither changes nor is exhausted" (Eliade, 1959, 69). Sacred time pertains to the sphere of metaphysical knowledge, which is, Watts (1968, 59) comments, "'beyond' (meta) 'nature' (physis)." Whereas modern man has become accustomed to thinking of progress as lying ahead along an imaginary horizontal line which extends into the future, ancient thinkers con­ ceived of that greater reality as existing at the end of a vertical line, the omphalos, which had nothing to do with sidereal time. These thinkers postulate greater reality as lying above us and being attainable by ascent in a vertical direction. "This direction does not belong to time. Our 200 strivings have their full fruition not in the horizontal

direction but in the vertical one" (Nicoll, 1952, 66).

What we come to realize is that the experience of

no-time is unity, i.e., unified consciousness.

The unification of the life (sic) depends on another understanding of time. Put in another way, our ordinary feeling of I does not enable us to reach unity. But we have already connected a different understanding of time with a different level of consciousness. Unification of the life, the attainment of a new level of consciousness, a different understanding of Time, and a new feeling of 1^ are thus all related (Nicoll, 1952, 108). The same idea is stated somewhat differently by another author. "Eternity is now, and in the light of un- repressed vision the physical organism and the physical

world turn out to be the divine world" (Watts, 1969, 191). The last important point to be made in relation to the attainment of eternity is that it is not concerned with

death or dying in a physical sense. "It would be far more

correct to say that it refers, first of all, to some change that man is capable of undergoing now, in this life, and

one that is connected with the attainment of unity" (Nicoll, 1952, 119).

Eternity, then, is associated with a higher order of existence which can be thought of as occupying a higher space. Knowledge of it implies movement along an imaginary vertical line which culminates in the breakthrough into a new level of consciousness. The comprehension of time as 201 the fourth dimension involves this breakthrough in conscious­

ness which leads to the perception of life as a unified ground.

The real distinction, therefore, between time and eternity is qualitative and so must lie in the realm of psychological experience. Considered abstractly, no quantity of time can produce eternity, Just as no matter how far we extent a line we cannot produce a square or a cube. Con­ sidered psychologically, no quantity of temporal experience can constitute a moment of eternal experience (Nicoll, 1952, 132). Having examined in some detail the psychological

implications of eternity, we should now like to consider how the same concepts are dealt with in myth.

Eliade (1965, 34), studying primitive behavior, finds that "an object or an act becomes real18 only insofar as it imitates or repeats an archetype." Seen from this

point of view, ritual becomes a series of paradigmatic

gestures which, by projecting man into eternity, into the mythical epoch before time, abolish passing time. Rites and ceremonies form the bridge over which man passes into the arena of the sacred. The abolition of profane time and the indi­ vidual's projection into mythical time do not occur, of course, except at essential periods— those, that is, when the individual is truly himself: on the occasion of rituals or of important acts (alimentation, generation, ceremonies, hunting, fishing, war, work). The rest of his life is passed in profane time,

18. "Real" means having an exemplary or archetypal quality through participation in no-time. 202 which is without meaning: in the state of "becoming" CEliade, 1965, 35). This concept of ritual responds to a profound need

in primitive man to regenerate time. Observing the changing of the seasons and other biocosmic rhythms, primitive man

everywhere attached crucial significance to the ending of one period of time and the beginning of the next. Rituals accompanying these cyclic endings and beginnings were designed to ensure a safe transition from the one to the other and a continuity of human life. . . . a periodic regeneration of time presupposes, in more or less explicit form—and especially in the historical civilizations—a new creation, that is, a repetition of the cosmogonic act (Eliade, 1965, 52). The participation mystique which occurs between Ifach and the poet results in a new relationship between them. The rock becomes "mi mayor tesoro," and she the treasure of the rock. In ecstasy she will sing to the rock.

"Porque cantarte serS ir con mi amor y mi delirio en hondo calado posesivo, jcontigo, Ifach!, por el camino espeso de vides, que es la eternidad tuya" (Conde, 1967, 171). The exchange of passion for serenity will lead to, "hondo calado posesivo," a deep possession in which ordinary consciousness is abandoned.

This experience will amount to a journey along the route of the grapevine, "que es la eternidad tuya" (Conde, 1967, 171), The association of the grapevine with eternity 203 bears some commentary"The vine was sacred to the Thracian

Dionysus, and to Osiris, and a golden vine was one of the

principal ornaments of the Temple of Jerusalem. It is the tree of joy, exhilaration and wrath" (Graves, 1966, 183). Through its association with Dionysus, the vine can be seen

as representing the ecstasy experienced in Bacchic orgy. Its associations in Christianity are quite different. "The vine is one of the most vivid symbols in the Bible and is

used to express the relationship between God and his

people" (Ferguson, 1959, 21). Similarly, because God and man are related through Christ, the vine became a symbol of Christ (Ferguson, 1959, 21). In medieval alchemy as well as in the drawings of a modern woman, Harding has found both meanings joined in the image of a serpent sacrificed upon a vine-covered cross. She comments:

. . . when the cross on which the snake is hung is covered with vine leaves it would indicate that the sacrifice of the autoerotic aspect of the instincts is thereby healed or transformed into the emotion of love (Harding, 1973, 265).

Here, as in the poem to Ifach, the vine is associ­ ated with a path of transformation which leads to a new reality, "eternity." In addition, it should be pointed out that the vine was not infrequently traversed by the shaman in his ascent heavenward (Eliade, 1972, 486). Eliade (1972,

354) has found among several peoples, "the myth of the vine that once joined earth and sky . . . ." The vine functions 204 much as a ladder and for Conde (1967, 171) it is the

"camino espeso de vides," which connects with eternity.

The many references to eternity indicate that

"Ifach: DeclamaciSn" is really a portrayal of the manner in which the poet gains awareness of sacred time. Eliade considers that there is little difference between Plato's contemplation and the ecstasy of the shaman. Both states enable the subject to realize himself fully by gaining knowledge of the ultimate reality. "We could almost speak of an archetype of 'gaining existential consciousness,' present both in the ecstasy of a shaman or a primitive mystic and . . . all the other visionaries of the ancient world . . ." (Eliade, 1972, 394). This same archetype of ecstasy is the dominant theme of the poetic world of

Carmen Conde. "Ifach: Declamaci6n" combines numerous images from the world of myth all of which are in some way related to the ecstatic experience. We have noted how Ifach itself functions poetically as a world axis and in this respect have found a study of the role of the shaman to be illustra­ tive in explicating the full meaning of the motif of ascent for the poet. We have observed how both the poet and the shaman are specialists in the human soul and specifically how both Carmen Conde and the shaman find in the technique of ecstasy a means of healing division within the psyche. We have seen how the posture of the swimmer floating in the 205 sea corresponds to the prevalence of the receptive mode of thought and how the poet's emphasis on continuidad pre­ supposes a vision of reality as a unified field. Finally, we have observed how the participation mystique which occurs between the poet and the rock leads to the knowledge of eternity, a new level of consciousness, which is the core of the ecstatic experience. CHAPTER 8

THE NUMINOUS EXPERIENCE OF THE ESCORIAL

Ecstasy following upon inner serenity forms the

dominant motif of a remarkable series of twenty-five 19 prose poems entitled Mlo (.1941) f all having to do with the Escorial. Of this monument of Spanish history Conde (194 9, 19) comments, "Cuando las cosas y las personas

poseen personalidad autentica, obligan a la concordancia a cuanto les rodea." In other words, the Escorial represents for her the essence of order and serenity.

To San Lorenzo de El Escorial, Carmen Conde comes after the shock and horrors of the Spanish Civil War for a period of repose, study and contemplation. In her

"Confidencia literaria," the poet recalls: DespuSs de terminada la guerra me aisl£ en un severo lugar. He aqui lo mSs fundamental de mi vida. Por vez primera sola, libre, frente al silencio, la historia de mi pais y mi propia existencia. El gran rlo de todas las poesias, desfilando mansamente; los afanes humanos propios, dimitidos; los ajenos, distantes. Muy a la zaga y en olvido de todos, un punado de anos se fue dulce, pero hondlsimamente vivido, a la eternidad. Escribl mucho, mucho, para ml sola (Conde, 1967, 247).

19. First published as part of Mi libro de El Escorial, Valladolid, 1948.

206 2 07

It is to be noted at the outset that the poet herself identifies this experience at San Lorenzo de El Escorial 2 0 as "lo mSs fundamental de mi vida" (Conde, 1967, 247), and that the experience is intimate and personal, "Escribl mucho, mucho, para mi sola" (Conde, 1967, 247).

The Monastery of San Lorenzo de El Escorial was built by Philip II to commemorate his victory over the French at San Quintin on August 10, 1553, the day of St. Laurence. Ground was broken for construction and the first stone set in place in 1563. The original plans, drawn according to the King's wishes, were executed by Juan

Bautista de Toledo, but upon the death of the latter in 1567, Juan de Herrera became the King's architect (El

Escorial octava maravilla del mundo, 1967, xvi). The giant monastery, dedicated to St. Laurence, has the shape of a huge gridiron, intended to remind us of the martyrdom of the saint who was roasted alive on such an apparatus (El Escorial octava maravilla del mundo, 1967, 16).

The symbolic possibilities suggested by the Escorial are numerous. We should like to note initially that inas­ much as it is a religious complex, the Escorial partakes of the quality of the sacred. "Every temple or palace,"

Eliade (1965, 12) tells us, "—and, by extension, every

20. In her correspondence with the author, Carmen Conde has confirmed that this passage does indeed refer to San Lorenzo de El Escorial. Letter of December 10, 1974. 208 sacred city or royal residence—is a Sacred Mountain, thus becoming a Center." For many years the Escorial was the royal residence as well as a place of worship for the Spanish monarchs. The psychological validity of the symbolism of the Center has survived through many centuries.

Indeed, architecturally, it permeates the design of the church.

The very ancient conception of the temple as the imago mundi, the idea that the sanctuary reproduces the universe in its essence, passed into the religious architecture of Christian Europe: the basilica of the first centuries of our era, like the medieval cathedral, symbolically reproduces the Celestial Jerusalem (Eliade, 1965, 17).. Carmen Conde's journey to San Lorenzo de El Escorial prefigures a psychological voyage to the Center. In preparation she seeks seclusion and solitude, an act which amounts, psychologically, to the establishing of a temenos, defined by Jung C1968c, 54n) as "a piece of land, often a grove, set apart and dedicated to a god." The Greek meaning of this word is "something cut off" or "set apart," which bears comparison to the Latin templum, also originally

"something cut off" which gives us "temple." Taking up residence within sacred precincts is the equivalent of enclosing oneself in a magic circle, where, by reason of the diffusion of the sacred within the circumference, one is protected from outside distractions and interference. The drawing of a spellbinding circle is an ancient magical device used by everyone who has 209

a special or secret purpose in mind. He thereby protects himself from the "perils of the soul" that threaten him from without and attack anyone who is isolated by a secret. The same procedure has also been used since olden times to set a place apart as holy and inviolable; in founding a city, for instance, they first drew the suculus primigenius or original furrow (Jung, 1968c, 54).

In documenting the symbols which are elaborated by the psyche in the process of individuation, Jung (1968c, 95) has noted the consistent appearance of circular forms, which he identifies with the mandala "the ritual or magic circle used in Lamaism and also in Tantric yoga as a yantra or aid to contemplation." These circular images, symbolic of the Center, tend to be produced, "at such times when psychic equilibrium is disturbed or when a thought cannot be found and must be sought for, because it is not contained in holy doctrine" (Jung, 1968c, 96). Now, keeping in mind the square, gridiron plan of the Escorial, we should further like to note Jung's affirmation that the Lamaic mandala generally encloses a square, symbolic of the stupa or shrine. "We can see from the mandalas constructed in solid form that it is really the plan of a building" (Jung, 1968c, 126). On the basis of this observation it becomes apparent that the Escorial serves for Carmen Conde the same function that the mandala does for the yogin, namely that it is an "aid to contemplation." Another of the symbolic configurations suggested by the Escorial is that of the mausoleum or burial ground and 210

all the psychological remnants of the past which it con­ tains. For centuries the Escorial has served as a place of burial for Spanish kings beginning with the Emperor Charles

V, whose remains were moved there in 1574, upon Philip II's request (El Escorial octava maravilla del mundo, 1967, xvi).

That Carmen Conde was not unaware symbolically of this facet

of the Escorial is shown by the following remark. "El hombre, que es el flnico que almacena sus muertos, creo aqui

un almacen especial para unos muertos determinados: los

reyes" (Conde, 1949, 20). The motif of the burial ground evokes the notion of man's psychological pre—history, the

mass of the unconscious from which consciousness emerged. The dead kings and queens of Spain are in a mythological sense her ancestral spirits. Jung (1968c, 131) sees man's identification with his ancestors as representative of . „ . an integration of the unconscious, a veritable bath of renewal in the life-source where one is once again a fish, unconscious as in sleep, intoxication, and death. Hence the sleep of incubation, the Dionysian orgy, and the ritual death in initiation. Naturally the proceedings always take place in some hallowed spot. Both the symbolism of the mandala and the motif of the burial place of Kings, in which symbolically slumbers

man's psychological past, suggest the basic dialectic at work in the poems of Mio, namely a dialogue with the un­ conscious which is the hallmark of the process of indi­ viduation. Carmen Conde herself pinpoints the imperative of self-examination imposed by the Escorial. Contrasting

the majesty of the Escorial and the countryside which

surrounds it with the sea, she makes the following' comment "Lo que lleva, espiritualmente, atfn m&s de ventaja sobre el mar esta solemna cita del paisaje con los humanos (i.e., the Escorial), es que se nos obliga a mirarnos por

dentro, a considerarnos, a analizarnos" (Conde, 1949, 30). The poet is also aware that this form of introspection

leading to an encounter with the creative forces of the unconscious implies a symbolic death, dying to the impera­ tives of ego consciousness in order to awaken to a new

reality and a new form of perception. In the presence of

the Escorial, she feels ready to submit to this symbolic death and the ensuing initiation which it implies.

Ifach me ensenaba cabe su gloria, el magn§tico abismo redonde, y yo me escape de su atracci6n orgSnica. Aqui, si he querido morir sentada frente al monasterio, en una piedra de su fcibrica, he muerto pidiendo: 'enterradme en este monte, frente a la llanura' (Conde, 1949, 26).

The burial ground as a symbol of the unconscious mind which contains man's psychological prehistory is related to the symbolic configuration of the depths. In the depths lies the treasure hard to attain, the source, the center of psychic energy.

The source of life is, like El Khidr, a good companion, though it is not without its dangers, as Moses of old found to his cost, according to the Koran. It is the symbol of the life force that eternally renews itself. 212

. . . The source means not only the flow of life but its warmth, indeed its heat, the secret of passion, whose synonyms are always fiery. . . . But the source is underground and there­ fore the way leads underneath: only down below can we find the fiery source of life. These depths constitute the natural history of man, his causal link with the world of instinct (Jung, 1968c, 120).

As we have already noted, this same concept under­

lies the architectural arrangement of all sacred structures. Whether we are dealing with the Buddhist temple or the

Christian basilica, a symbol of the source resides in the inner sanctuary. Just as the stupas preserve relics of the Buddha in their innermost sanctuary, so in the interior of the Lamaic quadrangle, and again in the Chinese earth-square, there is a Holy of Holies with its magical agent, the cosmic source of energy, be it the god Shiva, the Buddha, a bodhisattva, or a great teacher (Jung, 1968c, 128).

In short, Carmen Conde's selection of a religious complex for the scenario of this important drama, which we have chosen to call the numinous experience of the Escorial, indicates clearly the motif of the journey to the Center. "Attaining the center is equivalent to a consecration, an initiation; yesterday's profane and illusory existence gives place to a new, to a life that is real, enduring and effective" (Eliade, 1965, 18). It is this journey which elaborates in symbolic form the process of individuation.

A third symbolic configuration which links the Escorial poems to the process of individuation is that of 213 the Escorial as vessel. As we examine the poems of Mlo, we shall see repeatedly that the principal role of the monastery is that of a container. It embodies the qualities of logos, order and serenity, which mold and transform the passion of Eros, represented by the poet herself. The Escorial becomes the agent of her transformation. The prominence of the vessel symbolism in conjunction with the process of individuation brings us necessarily to a theoretical dis­ cussion of alchemy. Like the Escorial for Carmen Conde, the retort of the alchemist was the vessel in which occurred a transmutation of matter apprehended as miraculous. The symbolic language of the alchemist, used in describing the nature of his experiments will be of tremendous value to us in elucidating the transformations to which Carmen Conde refers in the poems of Mlo.

The research of Jung has established beyond doubt the direct correspondence between what the alchemist was trying to accomplish in the retort and the process of individuation. The transformation of base metal into gold or the Philosopher's Stone paralleled a process of spiritual transformation which, for the work to be successful, had to occur at the same time in the alchemist himself. Jung attributes this dual conception of the nature of the work to the psychological phenomenon of projection.

Although their labors over the retort were a serious effort to elicit the secrets of chemical 214

transformation, it was at the same time—and often in overwhelming degree—the reflection of a parallel psychic process which could be pro­ jected all the more easily into the unknown chemistry of matter since that process is an unconscious phenomenon of nature, just like the mysterious alteration of substances. What the symbolism of alchemy expresses is the whole problem of the evolution of personality . . . the so-called individuation process (Jung, 1968c, 34).

Eliade C1971, 119), in The Forge and the Crucible, has come to a similar conclusion,

The materia prima should not be understood merely as a primordial condition of the substance but also as an inner experience of the alchemist. The reduction of matter to its original condition of absolute indifferentiation, corresponds, on the plane of inner experience, to the regression to the prenatal, embryonic state. This breakdown of matter to its original components is the first step in a series of changes which are to lead to its transformation into the Philosopher's Stone.

Eliade has studied in myth the mental attitudes of the primitive which underlie the fields of metallurgy and alchemy, two areas which he finds closely related. The transformation of metals implicit in both alchemy and metallurgy is due to the fact that these substances partake of the attributes of the Earth-Mother. Very early on we are confronted with the notion that ores "grow" in the belly of the earth after the manner of embryos. Metallurgy thus takes on the character of obstetrics. Miner and metal-worker intervene in the unfolding of subterranean embryology: they accelerate the rhythm of the growth of ores, they collaborate in the work of Nature and assist it to give birth more rapidly CEliade, 1971, 8). 215

A second, related series of myths claims that man is, in fact, descended from stone. "Both beliefs," Eliade (1971, 43) continues, "have implicit in them the idea that stone is the source of life and fertility, that it lives and procreates human creatures just as it has itself been engendered by the earth." The notion that the maturation and transformation of metals could be accelerated by the assistance of man constitutes that psychic secret which Jung (1968c, 296) saw as originally projected onto matter in antiquity, and which remained a matter of fascination until alchemy declined in the eighteenth century.

The goal of the alchemist was the production of the Philosopher's Stone which was reputed to have the power to transform base metals into gold (Eliade, 1971, 166). At the same time, its creation implied the spiritual development of the man who strove to produce it. . , . the lapis philosophorum is the mysterious rebis, the "double thing" formed of the union or coniunctio of the opposites. It is called the "androgyne" or the "hermaphrodite" and is fre­ quently represented as the "immortal child." The unchangeable quality of that which is formed by this union of opposites, of spirit and matter, is also emphasized in Buddhist texts, in which the Diamond Body is often the symbol of the final achievement. The alchemists likewise sought to produce from these two opposing elements or principles a child or little man, the homunculus-- a living being that at the same time was the lapis philosophorum. Sometimes it is spoken of as the rotundum, the "round thing" (corresponding to the central circle of the Lamaistic mandala), which is a stone, a gem, and yet not a stone, for it is 216 composed of body and soul united to form a spirit (Harding, 1973, 447).

The scholars of alchemical treatises are in agree­

ment in stipulating that the transformation comprehended four stages which were named after the colors taken on by

the substance being treated during the process of transfor­

mation: melansis or black, leukosis or white, xanthosis or yellow, and iosis or red. With some variations, the four stages have remained intact throughout the history of alchemy (Eliade, 1971, 149). When the ideas of the alchemical process were clothed in the language of Christianity, the Philosopher's Stone became equated with knowledge of God. "This," Eliade (1971, 166) explains, "is why the Stone makes possible the identification of opposites." Jung (1968c, 354) elaborates on the manner in which this line of thinking developed, Without knowing it, the alchemist carries the idea of the imitatio a stage further and reaches the conclusion we mentioned earlier, that complete assimilation to the Redeemer would enable him, the assimilated, to continue the work of redemption in the depths of his own psyche.

It should be pointed out, however, that the alchemist did not associate the figure of Christ with himself. Rather, he saw the qualities of the Son of God as residing in the Stone, and the Stone itself became a symbol of Christ (Jung, 1968c, 3551. 217 Given the sacred nature of the task which the alchemist was to perform, he had to have a particular sort of temperament and clearly specified personal charac­ teristics. Not everyone was suited to the work. All texts agree in emphasizing the virtue and the qualities of the alchemist. He must be healthy, humble, patient, chaste; his mind must be free and in harmony with his work; he must be intelligent and scholarly, he must work, medi­ tate, pray, etc. It is obvious therefore, that it is not merely a question of experiments con­ ducted in the laboratory. The alchemist must involve himself completely in his work (Eliade, 1971, 159). Two sorts of mental discipline are stressed as being essential to a successful laboratory operation. Both imply a vital relationship between the alchemist and his un­ conscious. The first of these is the practice of meditatio. Ruland's Lexicon Alchemiae defines meditatio as follows: "The word meditatio is used when a man has an inner dialogue with someone unseen. It may be with God, when He is invoked, or with himself, or with his good angel." The psycholo­ gist is familiar with this "inner dialogue," it is an essential part of the technique for coming to terms with the unconscious, Ruland's defini­ tion proves beyond all doubt that when the alchemists speak of meditari they do not mean mere cogitation, but explicitly an inner dialogue and hence a living relationship to the answering voice of the "other" in ourselves, i.e., of the unconscious (Jung, 1968c, 274).

In relation to the practice of meditatio it is worth noting how Carmen Conde advises the visitor who foresees a journey to the Escorial. "Si sois personas muy nutridas yo os dirla que podSis veniros sin nada. Depende de vuestra consistencia" (Conde, 1949, 25). Most people, however, 218

should not come alone. "Si podSis, acompanaros de alguien

con quien dialogar. El paisaje y su criatura os ofrecen abundantes teraas" (Conde, 1949, 25). A visit to the

Escorial implies dialogue. The person who is attuned to the inner voice will be able to sustain an inner dialogue with the unconscious together with all that it implies.

Those not so suited should bring a companion with whom to

share their thoughts, thus obviating the necessity of an encounter with the unconscious.

The second form of mental activity deemed necessary for the alchemist's work is imaginatio, "the active evoca­

tion of CinnerX images secundum naturam, an authentic feat of thought or ideation, which . . . tries to grasp the inner facts and portray them in images true to their nature ..."

CJung, 1968c, 167]. It is not to be confused with phantasia, "which means a mere 'conceit' in the sense of insubstantial thought" CJung, 1968c, 167). Through imaginatio the alchemist related his own mental activity to the substance he wished to transform. He viewed imaginatio as a specific part of the laboratory ritual taking place in the retort to be interspersed between the various stages of the trans­ formation. Marvelous changes might be wrought through the practice of imaginatio because imagination was considered

a faculty of the soul. Thus, while the soul functioned within the body, the effects of its imaginings might be felt outside the body. In this way, the alchemist hoped by means 219 of the phenomenon we now call projection to influence his opus through an act of imagination (Jung, 1968a, 279). Jung finds this form of psychic activity which accompanied

the opus akin to the phenomenon he has named "active imagination."

This method enables us to get a grasp of contents that also find expression in dream life. The process is, in both cases, an irrigation of the conscious mind by the un­ conscious, and it is related so closely to the world of alchemical ideas that we are probably justified in assuming that alchemy deals with the same, or very similar, processes as those involved in the active imagination and in dreams, i.e., ultimately with the process of individuation (Jung, 1968c, 346).

Let us now come to a consideration of the vessel, the receptacle in which all of these miraculous transforma­ tions are to take place. It will be recalled that the symbolism of the vessel is the principal symbolic con­ figuration present in Mio, as Conde (1967, 231, 233, 234) on several occasions refers to the monastery as a container.

Jung considers the sealed vessel of the alchemist to be the equivalent of the magic circle. "In both cases the idea is to protect what is within from the intrusion and admixture

of what is without, as well as to prevent it from escaping" (.Jung, 1968c, 167). For the same reason, Harding (1973, 431) finds the vessel related to the mandala, a comparison we have already suggested in noting that the mandala occa­ sionally contains the building plan of a sacred structure. 220 Harding specifies additional symbolic properties of the vessel.

The Greek alchemistic texts describe it as the container of the four elements that must be fused to make the round stone, the rotundum. By some it was regarded as a symbol of the whole creation, the cosmos, as made up of the four elements—earth, air, fire, and water. It is also a symbol of the little creation, the microcosm, man himself, whose body is likewise composed of the four elements, and whose psyche is compounded of the four aspects of the world, the four realms of being mediated to him through the four functions (Harding, 1973, 431).

In view of the multiplicity of images and meanings associ­ ated with the vessel, one is forced to concur with Jung (.1968a, 238) that, "the vessel is more a mystical idea, a true symbol like all the central ideas of alchemy."

Finally, to the above suggestions that the hermetic vessel represents the magic circle, the mandala, the macrocosm, the microcosm and a mystical idea, we should like to add the necessary correlate that the vessel is oneself. "In it the many pieces of psychic stuff scattered throughout one's world must be collected and fused into one, so making a new creation" (Harding, 1973, 431).

Without exception, those who have studied the alchemical treatises have commented upon the confusing nature of the directions given and the obscurity of the language used. Indeed, it would appear that exactly such an effect was desired by the authors. For this reason, Harding (1973, 426) tells us, alchemy was commonly referred to as "the 221 secret art." Eliade (1971, 162) points out that both the

prima materia and the Philosopher's Stone "defy precise identification—a consequence not of the writer's brevity

but rather of their prolixity." Jung attributes the con­

fusing array of symbols, terms, and definitions to the

highly individualized nature of projection and the truly original work which resulted from each individual's specula­ tions.

The profound darkness that shrouds the alchemical procedure comes from the fact that although the alchemist was interested in the chemical part of the work, he also used it to devise a nomenclature for the psychic transforma­ tions that really fascinated him. Every original alchemist built himself, as it were, a more or less individual edifice of ideas, consisting of the dicta of the philosophers and of miscellaneous analogies to the fundamental concepts of alchemy (Jung, 1968c, 28 9). For the description of psychic contents, the alchemist fre­ quently availed himself of religious terminology, the transformation he underwent being in the nature of a pro­ foundly religious experience. For this reason, it is not uncommon to find a sprinkling of religious and even mystical terms among the alchemists' descriptions (Eliade, 1971,

165).

What we are dealing with here is a "secret language" such as we meet among the shamans and secret societies and among the mystics of the traditional religions. This "secret language" is at once the expression of experiences not otherwise communicable by the medium of daily speech, and the cryptic communication of the hidden meaning of symbols (Eliade, 1971, 164). 222

The language of the alchemist was, then, obscure by intent,

concealing from the eyes of the uninitiated experiences he was not prepared to understand. Such a "secret language" is also the language of Mio, twenty-five poems dealing with what must have been for the poet a moving religious experi­ ence.

In the following pages we shall address ourselves to a selection of poems from Mlo, which illustrate the major themes of the book. We shall attempt to point out the

prominence of the Escorial as the container in which the

process of individuation brings about a steady transforma­

tion, and we shall note how the symbolic language of alchemy helps us to understand the nature of that transformation. Unisona unidad compacta. Bajo retumbante que las montanas sostienen. Trazado indeleble en la abierta llanura. La luz que te senala en las noches de fuegos, revela tu arquitectura a la Toledo Del Alfange liquido. cQuign, si no tiene un alma oceSnica, puede resistirte el frente a frente, desnudos los dos de ternuras, en hlspidos inviernos como los tuyos? He puesto mis manos sobre tu roca amartillada, domada, hecha carmen de ardores, y nos hemos trasvasado el calor que nada ni nadie apaga CConde, 1967, 229). We first see the Escorial at night, a fact which

indicates the sort of relationship which will exist between it and the poet. Night is the province of the passive

principle and the unconscious. It represents that period when consciousness ceases to hold sway. Accordingly, it is 223

a time favorable to the inception of a new relationship

between the poet and the unconscious. The great monastery is lit up like a ship at sea. The reference to "las noches de fuegos" probably evokes the

building as it appears on holy days when there are

brilliant pyrotechnical displays. The illumination re­

inforces the architectural sense of the building outlining its square shape, the "trazado indeleble" on the open

plane. The light also reveals its similarity, when seen from afar, with other square structures, "revela tu arquitectura a la Toledo del alfange liquido" (Conde, 1967, 229). One need only glance at El Greco's famous painting of that city to note that the curving river assumes the form of a cutlass. Until its conquest in 1085, Toledo was an important Moorish city. Subsequently it frequently served as the seat of the Spanish royal court until the establish­ ment of Madrid in 1561. Toledo represents a compendium of the different faiths which over the years have existed in

Spain. The religious experience to which the poet refers is greater than that proffered by a single faith. Thus in the second paragraph, she mentions "oceanic consciousness."

"cQui§n, si no tiene un alma oceSnica, puede resistirte el frente a frente ... ?" (Conde, 1967, 229). The illumination which she experiences at the Escorial is greater than consciousness which is Christian or Moslem or that of any other faith. Thus it is appropriate that the Escorial 224 should remind her of Toledo, a city whose religious past is not associated with just one faith, indeed, a city whose past recalls each of the major faiths which has existed in Spain: Moslem, Jewish, and Christian. The poet speaks of the Escorial as "unlsona unidad compacta." It is a symbol of unity, of wholeness and of a self-contained experience. It represents the temenos to which Jung (1968c, 54) makes reference. The Escorial is also a living structure. The poet uses an acoustic metaphor to describe a visual effect. She calls it a "bajo retumbante," "the echoing bass voice," which brings to mind such famous bassos as Paul Robeson, in contradistinc­ tion to the melodious blending of voices which occurs in choral or part-singing. With the Escorial the poet will have a special encounter, the "frente a frente" to which she refers and from which she will emerge a different person. In the last paragraph, Carmen Conde defines the vital relationship which exists between herself and the monastery. "He puesto mis manos sobre tu roca amartillada, domada, hecha carmen de ardores, y nos hemos trasvasado el calor que nada ni nadie apaga" (Conde, 1967, 229). Clearly, we are once more in the realm of magic. The relationship which exists between the poet and the monastery is that of participation mystique. It is by virtue of what the building tells the poetess about herself that it assumes its 225 vital aspect. By the laying on of hands, they exchange heat, the energy of life and passion. More than this, the great rock of the Escorial becomes a "carmen de ardores." Inas­ much as carmen may refer to "verso o composici6n poStica" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espafiola, 1973, s.v. "carmen") the poet hints at much more than a simple exchange of identities. The Escorial transforms her and she makes a "song," "carmen de ardores," of it.

Se han desvelado los robles.

Los otros Srboles de la sencillez ascensiva y esos que se mueven calofriados de lirismo sonrlen a las muchachas. Tambi^n las m&rgenes orladas de la blanca espuma de las flores entornan los ojos.

Yo voy hablando en voz alta y caliente por entre la tarde. Y hasta un joven Srbol oscuro ha tenido rubor de su violeta y se me ha ofrecido sGbito vestido del bianco de todas las inocencias.

~£Qu£ dice esa engreJda criatura que va por nosotros como si crecigramos a su conjuro? Orilla de mi discurso se esponjan las madreselvas, los labios de las doncellas bullen impacientes como sus senos. Y hay en los caballos que montan vigorosos jinetes el asentimiento de todos a mi voz.

]Yo os conjuro a que me oigHis eternamente! (Conde, 1967, 229-30). The main motif of the second poem of Mlo is that of the poet's voice, symbolic of the creative facility which will transform the Escorial into a poem. "Yo voy hablando en voz alta y caliente por entre la tarde" (Conde, 1967, 229)_. It will be noted from the double use of the verb 226 conjurar, "

(Conde, 1967, 230) that we are particularly concerned with the casting of spells. Now, spells are the particular province of witches, who, according to Caro Baroja (1965, 13), inhabit a special zone "in which the evidently real and the imaginary seem to overlap." The same zone, which is the functional region of participation mystique is also inhabited by poets. Thus, Carmen Conde can sustain a dialogue with the trees of her scenario which, it might be added, will still be growing there long after she has departed. Otto (1973, 117) defines the word "magic" as ". . . modes of behavior . . . whose object is to influence and regulate an event in accordance with the wishes of the agent." Eliade (1971, 101), studying the mythical link between shaman, smith and musician associates magic specifically with song, "To make something means knowing the nagic formula which will allow it to be invented or to 'make it appear' spontaneously." The spell which Carmen

Conde casts in the second poem of m£q has the effect of infusing life into all of the countryside around her. Hence the poem begins, "Se han desvelado los robles" (Conde, 1967, 22 9). The oak trees awaken as do the other trees of the second paragraph, which she tells us "se mueven 227 calofriados de lirismo" (Conde, 1967, 229). The trees

appear animated, as when they are blown by the wind, an

association which is not unimportant, since we later learn in Mlo that she herself assumes the role of the wind, "un

viento que te anduvo solemnemente transido de amor" (Conde, 1967, 234). The season might well be Spring to judge by the blossoming of trees and flowers, but this happening is rather a consequence of her voice. The poem burgeons with sexuality. The white flowers in the borders of the garden, "entornan los ojos," will not

look upon her directly. This motif of shame in the face of such blatant sexuality is continued in the third paragraph where we learn that "un joven Srbol ha tenido rubor de su violeta y se me ha ofrecido subito vestido del bianco de

todas las inocencias" (Conde, 1967, 229). We note particu­ larly the acceptation of rubor as "color que la vergiienza saca al rostro y que lo pone encendido" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "rubor"). In the presence of the poet, however, the tree turns white with bloom. Finally, we are told that it is because of her voice that the honeysuckle swells with bloom, that the lips of the young girls move impatiently like their breasts, and that vigorous horsemen ride their mounts. All this symbolic

sexual activity bespeaks the stirring of libido which is a consequence of the poet's encounter with the Escorial. The 228 activation of inner sources of energy foretell an important psychic event.

Part III is a poetic invocation:

III Allegate, paisaje.

Qu§date en mis ojos. Ftindete en ml. Incorp6rateme. Eternlzame.

Yo quiero morirme dulce e inesperadamente en tus manos (Conde, 1967, 230).

Whereas in the previous poem it is the trees lining her poetic discourse to which she has a magic relationship, here it is the countryside. The paisaje is both microcosmic and macrocosmic. The monastery of the Escorial is at the center of this unified paisaje. The poet comments on this point in "El Escorial: una meditaciSn mSs." Yo creo que los paisajes llevan dentro su sueno al que anhelan extranar de si: v^rselo en los brazos como a un hijo. Este monasterio de San Lorenzo es el sueno del paisaje de El Escorial. Tan propio le es, tan de sus entrahas, que ... no os parece f&brica colocada sobre el suelo sino el suelo mismo con formas naturales a su substancia ... (Conde, 1949, 22).

Thus the monastery itself is seen not as a building but rather as a topographic feature, "el suelo mismo."

The participation mystique of poet and countryside can be further elucidated by examining a portion of a prose poem by Juan Ram6n Jimenez called "Prolongaci6n de paisaje." 229

]Qug bienestar material.' Parece que la sangre del cuerpo es el agua aquella que reflejaba el crepfisculo, que es 61 mismo el paraje que ha sentido el alma, con sus Srboles, con su agua, con sus pcijaros. Es el cuerpo como una carne gloriosa que estci esperando en su centro, la resurreccion de su alma muerta en el Reino de la Realidad, es decir, de la fantasia. 0 que el cuerpo es el paisaje de tierra y el alma es el cielo crepuscular ... (Jimenez, 1959, 371).

Commenting on the poet's facility to produce images, Juan Ram6n Jimenez first suggests that the bloodstream is

like water reflecting the sunset. The spirit is also like the countryside. It has birds, trees and water, three symbols of the biosphere which rests upon the land. The body awaits the Resurrection of the soul not in the Kingdom Come, but in the Kingdom of Fantasy which for it 21 is Reality. In other words, the landscape awakens in the creative faculty of the poet. The bloodstream is so

nourished with spiritual images of the soul that creation

is imminent. Paisaje, then, is viewed as having a human dichotomy of life functions. "0 que el cuerpo es el paisaje de tierra y el alma el cielo crepuscular ..." (Jimenez, 1959, 371). It dwells, naturally, inside man.

The invocation of a poem by Carmen Conde implies an ongoing teleology. The creation encompasses four stages: "Quddate en mis ojos. Ftandete en ml. IncorporSteme. Eternizame" CConde, 1967, 230). These stages bear comparison

21, The poet here describes the process of imaginatio referred to on p. 218. 230 to the opus of the alchemist. In analyzing the first, "QuSdate en mis ojos" CConde, 1967, 230), we must bear in mind that the vessel or retort of the alchemist is oneself

(Harding, 1973, 431). As we refer to the second, "FCindete en ml" CConde, 1967, 230), it is worth noting that the verb fundir, "Derretir y liquidar Ilos metales u otros cuerpos

s6lidosJ" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua

espanola, 1973, s.v. "fundir"), is an important part of the

vocabulary of the metallurgist. Its use suggests the first stage of the alchemical transformation, the nigredo, "the reduction of substances to the materia prima, to the massa confusa, the fluid, shapeless mass corresponding—on the cosmological plane—to chaos" (Eliade, 1971, 163), This material disintegration or melting down is essential to accomplish a new synthesis. "IncorporSteme" (Conde, 1967, 230).

The phase which follows the nigredo, that is, the "work in white," the leukosis, the albedo, probably corresponds, on the spiritual plane, to a Resurrection expressed by the assumption of certain states of consciousness inaccessible to the uninitiated. (On the laboratory level, it is the phenomenon of "coagulation" which follows the initial putrefactio.) (Eliade, 1971, 162). The two following stages further refine the new product eventually producing something divine. "Eternlzame" (Conde, 1967, 230). What on a material level is seen as culminating in the Philosopher's Stone, on a spiritual level leads to

"freedom, illumination and immortality ..." (Eliade, 1971, 231 152). The poet expresses an eagerness to commence the operation, "Quiero morirme dulce e inesperadamente en tus manos" (Conde, 1967, 230). Finally, at the same time that she hints at the poetic process, she implies spiritual transformation. By yielding to the creative aspect of the unconscious, she will bring about in her work and herself a new artistic synthesis. IV Esto es mlo. Cada uno puede ir a coger aquello que yo no le quitar§ nunca. Solamente esto es mlo. Id adonde las cosas tienen tres dimensiones. Contad con el tiempo, con el espacio, con la profundidad. Mi pertenencia se inscribe en un aire que no puede respirarse sin licencia de Dios. Mlo es el si, mlas las palabras que os obligan a recuperaros y a miraros extranos de merecerme.

Es mlo lo que elijo. Aparto de la multitud un ser y ya no se me va del coraz6n. Sumiso y dulce me da el suyo, porque siente--sin entender el misterio—que cumple con Dios al venir conmigo.

£Cucil de esos que van y vienen por cosas, buscando compafila para su angustia, podrla quitarme lo que es mlo? Todo lo que nadie ve, lo que ni se oye ni toca, es mlo. Y yo os doy a ml, quien todo lo posee, para que vivSis en el si (Conde, 1967, 230).

"Mlo IV" will form an indispensable portion of our commentary for it deals with a definition of the term Carmen Conde has selected as the title of this work, Mlo. The experience of spiritual transformation implicit in the 232 poet's sojourn at San Lorenzo del Escorial leads through the discovery of the world of non-ego to a new form of conscious­ ness. "Solamente esto es Mlo."

Other people live in a three-dimensional world, "Id adonde las cosas tienen tres dimensiones. Contad con el tiempo, con el espacio, con la profundidad" (Conde, 1967, 230), but not the poet. She breathes a rarified air. "Mi pertinencia se inscribe en un aire que no puede respirarse sin licencia de Dios" (Conde, 1967, 2301. Here we must recall Nicoll's (1952, 183) remark that "... the truest feeling of self-existence is connected with a form of consciousness in which the time-sense is altered. Also, in this form of consciousness, the universe seems to be 'in our brain.'" Once more we find a poem by Juan Ram6n Jimenez helpful in elucidating a work by Carmen Conde. "Todo"

Verdad, si, si; ya hab£is los dos sanado mi locura.

El mundo me ha mostrado, abierta y blanca, con vosotros, la palma de su mano, que escondiera tanto, antes, a mis ojos abiertos, itan abiertos que estaban ciegos.'

jT1a, mar, y tCi, amor, mlos, cual la tierra y el cielo fueron antes! iTodo es ya mlo jtodo! digo, nada es ya mlo, nada! (Jimenez, 1959, 470). 233

Clearly the poet refers to a spiritual experience not unlike that undergone by Carmen Conde. Where she

speaks of serenity, he comments on having recovered from madness, "Ya hab£is los dos sanado mi locura" (Jimenez, 1959, 470). The "two" of this line are identified below as "Tfi, mar, y ttf, amor, mlos / cual la tierra y el cielo fueron antes!" (Jimenez, 1959, 470). The poet's recovery

from the blindness of dual consciousness is coincidental with a new form of perception, the phenomenon which we have seen time and time again associated with a new form of consciousness. "El mundo me ha mostrado, abierta / ... la

palma de su mano, que escondiera / tanto, antes a mis ojos

..." (Jimenez, 1959, 470). This revelation leads the poet

to exclaim: "iTodo es ya mio jtodo! digo, nada / es ya mio, nada!" (Jimenez, 1959, 470). Illumination produces a

paradoxical sense of Selfhood. The poet is the center of the Cosmos; therefore, everything is his, but as an ego he is nothing. Juan Ram6n Jimenez recognizes that the word mio implies a dualistic reality where ownership is possible. Consequently the poet corrects himself by saying "nada es mlo." Nothing is his because he is not the owner of some­ thing ontologically other than the consciousness which perceives it. Keeping in mind that mlo comprehends this para­ doxical view of Self, we can better understand the other qualities which Carmen Conde ascribes to the word. Mlo 234 refers to the whole process of individuation and to the world of the unconscious.

Es mlo lo que elijo. Aparto de la multitud un ser y ya no se me va del coraz6n. Sumiso y dulce me da el suyo, porque siente—sin entender el misterio—que cumple con Dios al venir conmigo (Conde, 1967, 230).

The being which is chosen may represent an un­ conscious content or a poetic image. In either case it is an inhabitant of the inner world which becomes integrated into consciousness, "ya no se me va del coraz6n" (Conde,

1967, 230). For this reason mio also represents a spiritual value ("nada"), "Todo lo que nadie ve, lo que ni se oye ni toca, es mio" (.Conde, 1967, 230). Otto (1973, 34) explains that when the mind "would fain put its highest consummation into words, 'all images fall away' and the mind turns from them to grasp expressions that are purely negative." Something of the numinous certainly attaches to what Carmen Conde experiences at the Escorial. Thus in the last line of the poem she reveals as mlo the other side of

"nothing" and concludes: "Y yo os doy a ml, quien todo lo posee, para que vivSis en el Si" (Conde, 1967, 230, my emphasis).

V Piedra serena, vaso de la liturgia castellana.

Gracias, porque me enseriaste cuanta columna d6rica sostiene la arquitectura de mi ensueno (Conde, 1967, 231). 235

In "Mlo V" we note again the parallels with the language of alchemy suggested by the poet's reference to

the Escorial as "piedra" and the alchemists' choice of the term lapis for the final product of his labors, the

Philosopher's Stone. "El Escorial: una meditaci6n mSs" is helpful in defining the poet's concept of "stone." Referring to the Escorial she says, "Ir y venir por este lugar, sin alterarse, es ser menos que la piedra. En Castilla no es la piedra un elemento desprovisto de substancia" (Conde, 1949, 27). The stone implies transformation. In "Mlo V," Carmen Conde stresses the vessel quality of the giant rock of the Escorial and manifests its functional importance as a container. Perhaps the two most important words are "serena" and "vaso." By containing, the Escorial transforms and passes on to the poet who dwells within it, its ambience of serenity. It contains not only the poet but also her cultural tradition. It is a vessel of Castilian liturgy, a storehouse of spiritual experiences down through the ages, and an amalgamation of other cultural elements, In the second statement, the poet refers to the doric columns which uphold her dreams. We have already seen that the dream in question is that of poetic creation. The doric column is an eclectic image which suggests numerous elements. First, it is a direct reference to the architectural components of the Escorial, the main entrance 236

being flanked by doric columns. Secondly, it is a reminder

of Greek civilization and mythology, which subtly, if not boldly, permeates all of Carmen Conde's poetic creation.

Both allusions, the physical plant of the Escorial and the

inheritance of Hellenism, uphold, like the column, the

edifice of the poet's work.

IX

Aquella plenitud del mar, por donde yo entr§ a la poesla ... Y aquel p6rtico barroco junto al cual pase§ un ensueno ,.. dQue dicen en mi sangre, frente a la ordenada y limpid£sima portada herreriana que ha ido serenSndome hasta el extasis? (Conde, 1967, 232). Carmen Conde enumerates two elements which influence her creation. She entered into poetry through the "plenitud del mar," Jung CL968c, 48) comments that, "The sea is the symbol of the collective unconscious, because unfathomed depths lie concealed beneath its reflecting surface." Carmen Conde's "plenitud del mar" can be seen as the un­ conscious depths, rich in archetypes and symbols. Her "ensueno," her poetic creation, was also influenced by the passing of a second door, "aquel pSrtico barroco," which the poet herself remarks, "... es el de la catedral de Murcia, que va impllcita con su ciudad en la adolescencia de la poetisa" (.Conde, letter of October 15, 1974). Both images, then, can be seen as referring to her youth, much of which was spent near the sea. On another level the "p6rtico 237 barroco" can be interpreted as a reference to influences, probably indirect, of gongorism in her early poetry (Engeman, 1962, 19). Now she asks what these two elements, the inarticulate but inspirational surge of the sea in combination with the overarticulated decoration of the baroque, say before the clean, serene style of the "portada herreriana." In this context, Herrera's facade must repre­ sent a mean between the other two extremes. The effect of finding the middle way is to calm her, to bring her to a state of tranquility which precedes ecstasy.

XI Te quiero porque tiembla mi cintura entre tus brazos. Me gustan tu olor Hspero, tu viento salvaje, tu carne estremecida de inesperadas corrientes; la serenidad exterior de tu traza y el arrebatado apasionamiento que escondes.

He sido tuya como s6lo se es del que nos da hijo. Me has ordenado las prisas, corregido los impulsos; tu solemnidad me hizo sonar siendo senora de ml misma. Nada me importan tus transetintes, ni siquiera tus muertos entroncados con la historia ... Para pertenecerte asi hab£a que venir desde el fragor de los otros y del mlo? enterarme de la formidable virilidad de tu hechura. Como la semilla calma la fecunda avidez, as£ tus columnas, tus p6rticos, tus torres, todas tus piedras calientes realizaron su milagro:

Contenerme (Conde, 1967, 233).

Here we find for the first time the configuration of the Escorial as a lover. "Te quiero porque tiembla mi cintura entre tus brazos" CConde, 1967, 233). She is 238

excited by its "olor aspero, tu viento salvaje, tu carne

estremecida de inesperadas corrientes ..." (Conde, 1967,

233). The Escorial is not just a great block of stone. It

affects her as only another human body might. Its walls are flesh that shivers with unanticipated thrills. She has

already indicated the tranquilizing effect which the

building as a whole has upon her, but now to the "serenidad exterior" of the ground plan she adds an interior element.

She is moved by the "arrebatado apasionamiento" which is concealed within. Leaving no doubt as to the masculine role which the Escorial symbolizes in her spiritual existence, Conde (1967, 233) says, "He sido tuya como s<51o se es del que nos da hijo." A mighty union occurs in the head of the poet bringing about a spiritual transformation. "Me has ordenado las prisas, corregido los impulsos; tu

solemnidad me hizo sonar siendo senora de mi misma" (Conde, 1967, 233). The metaphor of union between the poet and the building suggests the archetype of the hieros gamos or sacred marriage. Originally, this ceremony formed the most

important part of ancient rituals designed to insure the fertility not only of women but of the fields as well (Harding, 1971, 92). In psychological terms, it can be understood as the joining of eros and logos in the course of individuation. 239 To put it in modern psychological language, this projection of the hieros gamos signifies the conjunction of conscious and unconscious, the transcendent function characteristic of the individuation process (Jung, 1967, 433).

Briffault, speaking about the conspicuous sensuality displayed in fertility rites, comments on the essential character of the implied union between woman and deity. It is to women that the sacred marriage with the Divine Bridegroom is a functional necessity; men do not require to be united with a divine bride to fulfill their functions. But every religion, from the most primitive to the highest, is pervaded with the idea that union with a god, a hieros gamos, or "Holy Matrimony," is a neces­ sity to every woman (quoted in Harding, 1971, 93). Stated psychologically, this symbol of sacred marriage implies the fulfillment of Eros, the quality of relatedness in woman. By accepting her instinctual side, . .a woman gains a new relation to herself" (Harding, 1971, 151),

The appearance of the archetype of the hieros gamos signifies the acquiring of a new psychic equilibrium. That M£o treats of exactly this process can hardly be doubted when one examines Carmen Conde's essays in Mi libro de El Escorial. Borrowing from Cruz (1964, 31) his metaphor for mystical union she says:

Tener la casa sosegada, jqu£ hermosura! La serenidad y yo, mi amor y mi amar, "amada en el amado transformada" ... Unidad. Zumo en copa de cristal. dQuien transparenta a quign; donde empieza el ser posible de la embriaguez: en la copa o en el zumo? (Conde, 1949, 38). 240

Through the individuation process, Neumann tells us, the psyche ceases to function as a series of separate entities warring one against the other. "... the polarity between masculine and feminine and the inherited part-personalities of the unconscious, with all their multitude of opposites, are integrated in a unitary structure" (Neumann, 1969, 128). Finally, we should like to note that the archetype of the hieros gamos also formed a part of the vocabulary of the alchemist. . . . many of the texts indicate that the opus requires the combined work of a man and a woman, who often enact the parts of the male and female elements of the stone, or represent Sol et Luna or the "Red King and White Queen," and in psychological terms correspond to man with his feminine soul, the anima, or to woman with her masculine counterpart, the animus--the union in each case constituting the inner marriage, the hieros gamos by which the individual must become whole (Harding, 1973, 432).

In "Mio XI," we see the Escorial representing for Carmen Conde the qualities of Logos. The rich, impetuous, disordered offerings of the unconscious, which in their proclivity overpower the poet, must pass through a creative metamorphosis in which they are ordered and arranged so as to become intelligible to the human mind. This process Carmen Conde describes with a metaphor drawn from the most basic of life processes, investing it, nonetheless, with the numinous quality of a miracle. "Como la semilla calma la fecunda avidez, as£ tus columnas, tus p6rticos, tus 241

torres, todas tus piedras calientes realizaron su milagro: Contenerme" (Conde, 1967, 233). For Carmen Conde the

miracle of containment is that of realizing the potential

of the unconscious forces within her. Accordingly, she can speak to the great mass of stone as though it were her lover. At the same time she makes it quite clear that the Escorial is not important to her as an historical artefact. "Nada me importan tus transetlntes, ni siquiera tus muertos entroncados con la Historia ..." CConde, 1967, 233). It is the hieros gamos which occurs between herself and the monastery which transforms her.

XIV VendrSn a preguntarte por mf.

QuerrrSn saber las casas que habits, los sitios que frecuent6 mi existencia, los seres que me vieron vivir contigo. jDificil empresa para ti!

Mientras me tuviste, de tal manera te retumb£, te tom§, me di a tu propia vida, que no podrSs situarme si no es en todo tti, cielo y tierra? como a un viento que te anduvo solemnemente transido de amor (Conde, 1967, 234). The poet imagines herself far away. As she has immortalized the Escorial in her poems, people will come to know where she lived, what she did, all those things which

to her are irrelevant. "Diflcil empresa para til" (Conde, 1967, 234) she says to the Escorial. Their union was so complete, indeed such a numinous experience, that it cannot 242 be secularized into points of interest for a tourist brochure.

Mientras me tuviste, de tal manera te retumb£, te tom£, me di a tu propia vida, que no podrSs situarme si no es en todo tti, cielo y tierra; como a un viento que te anduvo solemnemente transido de amor (Conde, 1967, 234). Just as she feels permeated by the numinous force of the great stone and the feeling of unity it has created in her, onto it she projects the same interpenetration.

The use of the verb retumbar, "Resonar mucho ..."

(Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "retumbar") reminds us of the image in "Mlo I" of the Escorial as a "bajo retumbante" (Conde, 1967, 229). Now we see that the poet herself is the musician who causes the bass to resound. In similar fashion, she associates her­ self with the wind. For the Escorial she is, "The creative word, creative breath—that is, creative spirit" (Neumann, 1970, 22). The Escorial, were it to speak to the visitors of future generations, could never say, "Carmen Conde slept here." She is everywhere a part of it, in its earth and in its sky. Thus the wind, a loving wind, is the most appro­ priate image she might have chosen for herself, for the wind enters all places, slipping under doors, through cracks, making its presence felt in mysterious drafts in the corners of rooms. Carmen Conde is the pneuma of the Escorial caressing its external walls and filling its inner chambers as the very breath of life. 243

XVII Hay una hora para que ttl seas de nScar y te desprendas de tanto moreno antiguo enturbiado por aguaceros plomizos. Es la hora de tus alas. A las seis de la tarde te veo desde la Alameda, inmensa estatua de nScar, si. Fachada lenta que trasluce su circulaci6n frente al pozo verde del monte a donde se baja el dia (Conde, 1967, 235).

The poet speaks of a magic hour, an hour when the Escorial escapes its earthly character, its tradition and its past, and takes flight. It becomes pure spirit. "Es la hora de tus alas" (Conde, 1967, 235). Now it is a giant bird or, perhaps, the angel so consistently present in her poetic imagery. This configuration introduces the archetype of ascent, which Jung (1968c, 57) associates primarily with sublimation. "Magical flight," Eliade (1972, 479) comments, is the expression both of the soul's autonomy and of ecstasy."

At six o'clock in the evening as she views the Escorial from the Alameda, it appears to be an "inmensa estatua de n&car" (Conde, 1967, 235). The Escorial is transformed from a dull gray, "tanto moreno antiguo enturbiado por aguaceros plomizos" (Conde, 1967, 235), to an object of rare beauty, a statue of mother-of-pearl. Within shines a living circulatory system, stressing the organic quality which the monastery assumes for her. "Fachada lenta que trasluce su circulaciSn frente al pozo del monte a donde se baja el dfa" (Conde, 244

1967, 235). The Escorial is not an inanimate mass of rock.

Through it circulates a spirit capable of growth and change. This miracle is wrought by the last rays of the sun, as it

is about to sink behind the mountain. Far from the sea we

find the motif of the night sea voyage of the sun, for the

mountain is a green well into which the day descends. The

myths of the night sea voyage generally refer to the under­

water journey of the hero in the belly of some fabulous monster who swallows him at dusk in the west and disgorges him at dawn in the east (Jung, 1967, 210). These myths come from "the ancient notion of the sun, in its nightly course through the lower abyss ..." (Cirlot, 1962, s.v. "night- sea crossing"). Jung (1967, 212) finds that they represent "the longing to attain rebirth through a return to the womb, and to become immortal like the sun." In more general terms, the motif of the night sea voyage may be associated simply with a descent into the realm of the unconscious

(Cirlot, 1962, s.v. "night-sea crossing"). Thus, in similar fashion, we can understand the "pozo verde del monte" (Conde, 1967, 235) as a passageway leading to the underground waterways of the unconscious.

XVIII La lluvia deshoj6 tus cirboles. El viento no tiene ya sitio entre las ramas. jCucin digno tu continente, con el frio severo y con la soledad! 245

Para quererte hay que abrazarse a la llama como a un cuerpo (Conde, 1967, 236).

The mood is that of winter. The wind as a source of creative inspiration is no longer an effective symbol. "El viento no tiene ya sitio entre las ramas" (Conde, 1967, 236).

There are no leaves to quiver and show the effects of its animation. Still, the vitality of the Escorial as a symbol of transformation is not extinguished. It simply manifests

itself under a different configuration. "jCuSn digno tu continente, con el frio severo y con

la soledad.'" CConde, 1967, 236). The Escorial in winter

remains an emblem of severity. Thus the poet can refer to its dignified countenance. Stripped of its summer adorn­ ments, leaves and flowers, the geometric order of its lines

becomes even more striking.

To love the Escorial in winter one must be aware of the spiritual values it represents: "... hay que abrazarse a la llama como a un cuerpo" (Conde, 1967, 263). In "Mio XVIII" there is only one element, "la llama," which stands in contrast to the "frlo severo" of the second statement.

Throughout Mlo it is the presence of heat which indicates

the numinous aspect of the Escorial. Thus the poet refers to an exchange of "el calor que nada ni nadie apaga" (Conde, 1967, 229) and "tus piedras calientes" (Conde, 1967, 233). Heat plays an important role in the process of alchemical transformation. Eliade (1971, 79) comments that 246 "the alchemist, like the smith, and like the potter before him, is a 'master of fire.' It is with fire that he con­ trols the passage of matter from one state to another." Harding (1973, 431) notes that the transformation process

itself was reputed to generate great heat. Of Paracelsus

Bachelard (1968, 73) states that the basis of his system was

the equation of fire and life, "For Paracelsus, fire is

life, and whatever secrets fire truly bears the seed of life." Thus, while the flame continues to burn, be it a

flame as humble as that of the "brasero hecho de jaras Ique]

arde contino en la mesa de trabajo" (Conde, 1949, 38), the Escorial is alive for Carmen Conde. By embracing the flame she embraces the transformation it implies. XXI IEl pesante sol tuyoI Yo vendrS a hincar una vid en tu Sspero suelo y le sacar§ su leche roja.

S§ que irS embriagSndome despacio; poni§ndome suavemente loca su teltarica solera. No ser£ embriaguez gozosa ni triste, sino un ir ascendiendo reposado hasta hallar la gran lonja del viento.

Para desde all! cogerte en una mano y levantarte conmigo hasta donde yo puedo hacerlo (Conde, 1967, 237).

We need have no doubts about the nature of the sun

that illuminates the Escorial. It is not a remote, celestial globe of light. It is an earth sun, a sun of fire and a fructifier of growing things, heavy with numinous power. A 247

vine planted in the rough ground of the Escorial will spout

red wine laden with telluric intoxicants. With the red

milk of the earth, the poet will induce a state of drunken­ ness. "S§ que ira embriagSndome despacio; poni^ndome

suavemente loca su teltirica solera" (Conde, 1967, 237).

This ceremony evokes the rites of Dionysus, "god of luxuriant fertility, especially as displayed by the vine; and therefore the god of wine" (Seyffert, 1956, s.v. "Dionysus"), Jung (1968c, 90) interprets Dionysus as representing "the abyss of impassioned dissolution, where all human distinctions are merged in the animal divinity of the primordial psyche—a blissful and terrible experience."

Carmen Conde, on the other hand, states that her

intoxication will be neither manic nor gloomy, "sino un ir ascendiendo reposado hasta hallar la gran lonja del viento"

(Conde, 1967, 237). Her telluric intoxication becomes a spiritual ritual. Her communion with the forces of the

earth raises her to the entrance of the temple of the wind. The term lonja is defined as, "atrio algo levantado a la entrada de un edificio" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "lonja"). Architecturally, it is a term not infrequently applied to the Escorial as in the following description: "Uno de los mayores aciertos de los artifices del Real Monasterio ha sido rodear al edificio de lonjas y jardines que, a modo amplio y llano pedestal, permiten contemplar a distancia ... las fachadas ..." 248

(El Escorial octava maravilla del mundo, 1967, 17P). The lonja del viento will also be the entrance to the temple of poetry because of the specific connotation the word creation has for the poet. "The wind is air in its active and violent aspects, and is held to be the primary element by virtue of its connexion with the creative breath or exhala­ tion" CCirlot, 1962, s.v. "wind"). From the temple of the wind the poet will extend a hand to the Escorial, raising it "hasta donde yo puedo hacerlo" CConde, 1967, 237). She will transform it into a poem. XXII Yo aqul no me he querido llamar yo. Sin mi autentico nombre circular vivo cuerpo a cuerpo lo mSs desnudo de Espafia en cSlido secreto. Soy un ser que va y viene por ti, volvi§ndote conmigo a la inmortalidad (Conde, 1967, 237).

The initial statement of "Mio XXII" establishes in definitive fashion that the scenario of the poem is the world of non-ego. "Yo aqul no me he querido llamar yo" (Conde, 1967, 237). We note at once the correspondence between the word ego, "En la persona humana, parte consciente" CDiccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "ego"), and the word ;yo, "El sujeto pensante y consciente de las propias modificaciones, en oposici6n al mundo o naturaleza exterior en general" (Diccionario general 249 ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "yo"). The words ego and yo, then, can be seen as synonymous terms for expressing the ego-orientation of the mind. When Carmen

Conde says that she has refused to recognize herself as a "subject" she is rejfating this ego-orientation in favor of a fusing with the creative unconscious. In the domain of the unconscious the ego has no functional role. This orientation toward the unconscious implies as well, that the poet is aware of the possibility of a third psycho­ logical configuration, namely what Jung calls the Self. The Self is the term Jung uses for the end product of the process of individuation, namely, psychic wholeness. Of this configuration he says, It is . . . evident that the whole must neces­ sarily include not only consciousness but the illimitable field of unconscious occurrences as well, and that the ego can be no more than the centre of the field of consciousness (Jung, 1968b, 276}.

In this situation the ego assumes a subordinant role. It reigns solely over the function of consciousness which is only one part of the archetype of the Self. In the second paragraph the poet continues to develop her main theme. "Sin mi aut^ntico nombre circular vivo cuerpo a cuerpo lo mSs desnudo de Espana en cSlido secreto" (Conde, 1967, 237). At the outset we should like to point out that the "autgntico nombre circular" appears to be associated with the persona of the poet. 250

The persona, the mask, what one passes for and what one appears to be, in contrast to one's real individual nature, corresponds to one's adaption to the requirements of the age, of one's personal environment, and of the community. The persona is the cloak and the shell, the armour and the uniform, behind which and within which the individual conceals himself—from himself, often enough, as well as from the world (Neumann, 1969, 37-38).

It is to. be pointed out first of all that it is by

the shedding of the "aut^ntico nombre circular" that the poet achieves the intimate spiritual life of which she

speaks. Secondly, we should like to note in passing that

Carmen Conde customarily employs a rfibrica, "Rasgo o rasgos de figura determinada, que como parte de la firma pone cada cual despuSs de su nombre o tltulo" (Diccionario general

ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "rfabrica") of

circular form when signing her name. This fact corroborates our supposition that the "aut^ntico nombre circular" does in fact refer to her accepted name, Carmen Conde. The adjective autgntico may help to distinguish between her given name and the pseudonyms, Florentina del Mar and Magdalena Noguera, under which she sometimes published early works.

Without it, we learn, she lives "cuerpo a cuerpo," in intimate contact with her inner self. This lifestyle is described as "lo mSs desnudo de Espana" (Conde, 1967, 237).

It is, in other words, stripped of all non-essential elements. Finally, this experience partakes of the quality 251

of "ccilido secreto." The motif of heat reappears in this

poem. Ccilido is defined as "que da calor o excita ardor en

el organismo animal" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la

lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "cSlido"). The secret of which she partakes is permeated with the life-giving quality so prominent in Mio.

A broader understanding of the way the poet uses the word nombre can be gained by an examination of "Mio X," a poem in which Carmen Conde seems principally interested in the idea of names and what they stand for.

X Mi nombre se dice pronto. Es una palabra que brota de la honda garganta y termina sonora en los labios, juntcindolos prietos.

Se dice suave, y suena a plata oxidada. Se grita, y contesta el mar. Detr&s de mi nombre hay una fuerza segura. Quien me llama sabe que todo es posible, porque al principio estS la tierra y luego es el aire, el cielo lo que abre mi nombre CConde, 1967, 232-33).

This poem begins in enigmatic fashion. "Mi nombre se dice pronto" (Conde, 1967, 232). It is a sort of riddle pqem. The poet herself has indicated her intentions by explaining "Mi nombre es Carmen; se dice pronto, dos silabas lo forman. Se habla de £l--de mi que lo llevo—como de algo y alguien llenos de certidumbre" (Conde, letter, October 15, 1974). There can be no doubt, then, that the name in question is her own. When pronounced it evokes symbols she 2 52 associates with her poet-persona. "Se dice suave, y suena a

plata oxidada" (Conde, 1967, 232). The poet employs synaesthesia to enrich the image. Said softly her name is to the ear as tarnished silver, perhaps the family silver

service, is to the eye. Her name implies something cherished and of value even if it is not polished. "Se grita, y contesta el mar" (Conde, 1967, 232-33). When shouted, the

sea answers with the roar of its pounding waves, evoking the continuous and meaningful exchange of poetic imagery which has transpired between the poet and her two seas, the literal sea of her youth in southeastern Spain, and the symbolic sea of the unconscious.

Behind the poet's name, "hay una fuerza segura"

(Conde, 1967, 233), the absolutely positive conviction that poetry is her destiny. Anything is possible, we learn, "porque al principio est£ la tierra y luego es el aire, el cielo, lo que abre mi nombre" (Conde, 1967, 233). In this statement the poet's name can be interpreted as the key which opens, that is to say, makes accessible to the poet, the three regions of the biosphere: tierra, the earth; aire, air, the intermediate region; and cielo, the sky or heavens.

From these three regions, the poet will draw the poetic images essential to her art. Thus we can conclude that in

"M£O X," as in "M£O XXII," the term nombre is inextricably bound up with the persona, the image as poet which Carmen

Conde presents to the world of people and things and the 253 notion of what a poet is, which that world projects onto Carmen Conde.

Having established what the word nombre means in the context of "Mlo XXII," and having determined that the persona is not the self-image with which the poet is intimately concerned, we may now return to the last statement of "Mfo XXII." "Soy un ser que va y viene por ti, volvi^ndote conmigo a la inmortalidad" CConde, 1967, 237). During her experience at the Escorial, Carmen Conde has no need of a name, of an identity, of an exterior reality that can be recognized by others. Her naked essence merges right into the living systems of the Escorial. It is as though she lives immersed in its bloodstream. Losing her identity in the warm rock, she nonetheless confers lasting life upon it. She transposes it into a poem. This process, the loss of self in the unconscious, followed by reintegration on a new level, suggests the configuration of a rite of an initiation. Eliade comments on the meaning of initiation in relation to alchemy where the steps through which the initiate passed were projected onto the matter in the retort. fljnitiation into the mysteries consisted of participation in the passion, death and resurrec­ tion of a god[,J . . . already known to the neophyte as a myth or as authentic history. . . . The meaning and finality of the mysteries were the transformation of man. By experience of initiatory death and resurrection, the initiate changed his mode of being (he became "immortal") CEliade, 1971, 149). 254

In the light of this commentary, we can understand how the life which the poet lives "en c&lido secreto" metaphorically resembles a form of initiation which leads quite naturally to the mode of being Eternal.

XXIII Til estcis agul clavado, teniendote derecho en el espacio porque eres aspiraci6n de esta tierra. Ejemplo de ansiedad que casi ninguno atiende. La cancifin a tus llneas, arcos, arquitrabes, nunca es mSs que mllsica. La pulpa tuya, el meollo de tus columnas, la ralz cubridora del arrebato que ttf eres, como no se transparenta, a casi nadie enloquece. jYo no he visto mSs pequefios a los mortales que los veo a tu costado!

Si no fuera por ml, que lucho por salvarme del plomo de mi siglo, <£Qui£n te dirla, qui§n te transirla de tu esencia?

jTe hallarcin en mi obra, mSs ttl que tta mismo! CConde, 1967, 238). Firmly rooted in the chthonic realm, the Escorial rises heavenward, "aspiraci6n de esta tierra" (Conde, 1967, 238). The poet rephrases an earlier statement on the rock. "Ser dignamente en la tierra una violenta pasifin por la

eternidad" CConde, 1967, 238). The serenity of the rock encloses the most ardent of emotions. The monastery is vibrant, alive, a spiritual passion which nonetheless goes unnoticed by practically everyone. Other poets have praised its lines and arches as an architectural achievement, but their works do not comprehend the mystery contained within and hence they fail to grasp the meaning of the whole. "La 255

canci6n a tus lineas, arcos, arquitrabes, nunca es m£s que mtSsica" (Conde, 1967, 238).

Carmen Conde sees the Escorial as a living organic

structure- Its columns are described as though they were trees. She speaks of the pulp, the pith and the root of the

Escorial, aspects not visible to others. "La pulpa tuya, el

meollo de tus columnas, la ralz cubridora del arrebato que

tti eres, como no se transparenta, a casi nadie enloquece" CConde, 1967, 238). This intoxicating secret is vital, for it makes the Escorial assume gigantic proportions. It becomes a violent passion for eternity, and here we can see how this longing is directly related to the process of

individuation and the gradual emergence of the Self. Referring to the latter, Jung C1968c, 105) comments, "the other centre of personality lies on a different plane from

the ego since, unlike this, it. has the quality of 'eternity1 or relative timelessness."

Dwarfed by its ascension, the people, who for a short or long time coexist with it, shrink almost to the

point of disappearing. "lYo no he visto mSs pequenos a los mortales que los veo a tu costado!" (Conde, 1967, 238). This line may be compared to another from "Mio XX," where the poet remarks of the person who enters the basilica, "No h^y altura, ni lujo, ni siquiera bulto en las criaturas que se acercan all!" (Conde, 1967, 237). It is the mission of Carmen Conde, who has known spiritual transformation in its 256 presence, to reveal to us the true nature of the Escorial, and that is why, "jTe hallar^n en mi obra, mSs ttl que tt3. mismol" (Conde, 1967, 238).

The notion of spiritual transformation is one of particular significance to an epoch which has very largely lost touch with its earth roots, with the unconscious. Of this phenomenon Jung (1968c, 137) comments:

It is true that without the qualities of autonomy and autarky there would be no conscious­ ness at all, yet these qualities also spell the danger of isolation and stagnation since, by splitting off the unconscious, they bring about an unbearable alienation of instinct. Loss of instinct is the source of endless error and con­ fusion.

Accordingly, the poet herself remarks "Lucho por salvarme del plomo de mi siglo" (Conde, 1967, 238).

Johnston also comments on the problems of this century. Modern man suffers from a sense of emptiness and frustra­ tion.

Confronted with death, man is aware of his contingency, his incompleteness, his imperfection -—and it is this that fills him with existential dread. So he has to find meaning. Not just meaning for his economic, or emotional or cultural life, but meaning for his existence (Johnston, 1974, 123).

The poet's comment that she struggles to free her­ self from "el plomo de mi siglo" (Conde, 1967, 238) deserves a special commentary. The great work of the alchemist was to save himself from secularity or heavy time. Lead for him represented the heavy metal, the antithesis of flight. 257

Jung C1968c, 317) comments that "lead" was one of the many names given to the prima materia in its unchanged form. The

words secular and siglo share a common etymon, the Latin

saeculum, saecularis, "long period of time" and "temporal, worldly." Just as Conde (.1967, 238) seeks release from "el

plomo de mi siglo" the alchemist sought release from the

lead of his time.

For Carmen Conde the quest for meaning finds an

answer in the numinous experience of the Escorial. Her insight, like the Escorial itself, is rooted in the earth values within her, the feminine values of Eros. Just as the life processes of a plant ordain that it shall grow upwards, the archetype of the eternal feminine, whose nature it is to seek relationship, impels her toward spiritual transforma­ tion.

XXIV En el pretil orlado de magnolios se siente la sed violenta del recuerdo del mar. Esta inmedible vastedad huele furiosamente a algas. El boj que remueven los favonios empuja en la memoria mediterrSneas brisas.

lAy, la carta que fija la altura desde donde sentimos la locura del mar ausente!

Bajo mi temblor se doblan curvas tablas. Todo el jardin resuena caracolas que arrullan a las torres. Gaviotas fueron las ciguenas de vuelo caballstico.

Mar mlo, mar MediterrSneo, lQu§ lejos estas de El Escorial! CConde, 1967, 238). 258

Overlooking a garden of the Escorial, the poet feels a violent longing for the sea, and in her mind the monastery is transformed into a ship. The garden itself becomes "esta inmedible vastedad," a great expanse of ocean. It is permeated by the smell of algae and the salty odor of the sea. "El boj que remueven los favonios empuja en la memoria mediterrSneas brisas" (.Conde, 1967, 238). The wind rustles the boxwood which in turn slaps against the memory like waves. We must remember that it is through the "plenitud del mar" that Carmen Conde enters into the world of poetry.

For her the sea is a symbol of tremendous vitality, of life, of psychic forces and of seething, foaming inspiration. In this poem it is the moving body of water that carries her spiritual ship. The poet exclaims, "lAy la carta que fija la altura desde donde sentimos la locura del mar ausente!" (Conde, 1967, 238). In the double context of sea and land, carta may be understood as carta de marear, "mapa de un mar con sus costas o los parajes donde hay escollos o bajlos" CDiccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "carta"). Altura lends itself to a double interpreta­ tion. It is at once "altitude" and "elevaci6n moral o intelectual" CDiccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "altura"). Thus, the poet notes in enigmatic form, how far above the sea of the unconscious the spiritual experience of the Escorial has raised her. 259

"Bajo mi temblor se doblan curvas tablas" (Conde,

1967, 238). The word temblor like the word latir denotes an

intensification of psychic energy, a heightened flow of libido. As the decks of her ship rise and fall on the

waves, the garden resounds with the sound of metaphorical conch shells. For Carmen Conde, with her lasting love of the sea, it is the gull that replaces the stork in cabalistic flight. The poet concludes her reverie with an exclamation. "Mar mlo, mar MediterrHneo, iqu§ lejos est&s de El Escorial!" (Conde, 1967, 238). While the Mediterranean refers to the sea of her youth, the use of the possessive mio simul­ taneously indicates an aspect of the unconscious. She is speaking of two seas.

The basic antithesis of this poem would seem to be stone / sea. Several images in the fourth paragraph emphasize this opposition. We note that the poet refers to

"caracolas que arrullan a las torres" (Conde, 1967, 238). Now the arrullo is the sound typical of the dove. Thus, this phrase contains a blending of images: the shell per­ taining to the sea, the dove to the land. The same observa­ tion can be made of the metaphor which associates gulls and storks. In Mi libro de El Escorial, Carmen Conde delineates the values she associates with sea and stone. "El mar me infundla, yitalidad. La piedra, no. La piedra me ensena quretud; el mar me empuja a la acci6n" (Conde, 1949, 26-27). 260

What is significant in "Mlo XXIV" is that we find them fused together. This pairing of apparently opposite factors suggests the theme of the coincidentia oppositorum. fAjll these myths, rites and beliefs have the aim of reminding men that the ultimate reality, the sacred, the divine, defy all possibilities of rational comprehension; . . . the grund can only be grasped as a mystery or a paradox; . . . the divine conception cannot be conceived as a sum of qualities and virtues but as an absolute freedom, beyond good and evil . . . (Eliade, 1969, 82).

In other words, through the new perception of reality implied by the coincidentia oppositorum, -apparent opposites cease to pertain to separate categories and turn out to be forms of each other. In nature each "category" really functions in terms of its ecology. The fish is a form of differentiated water, and water is a kind of fluid, undifferentiated fish. The same thing may be said of bird/ air. Jung (1967, 368) associates this reconciliation of opposites with the process of individuation, finding that

"The self, as a symbol of wholeness, is a coincidentia oppositorum, and therefore contains light and darkness simultaneously." Clearly, Carmen Conde also views her experience at the Escorial as a sort of coincidentia oppositorum. She, as poet, is the medium in which the opposites are unified. One-half of herself she associates with the sea, the other with the Escorial. Morir. Despertar en quietud. En una oreja el rompiente azul del MediterrSneo; en la otra el menudo y potente y multiple latir del campo. 261 Media yo, tan grave y digna como una columna de este edificio; la otra, crecida de olas y espumas, apoyo y locura de un navio (Conde, 1949, 42-43).

Finally, we should like to note how the transcending of opposites was an essential aspect of the opus of the alchemist.

[IJn the making of the stone it was essential to find a means of uniting the opposed "natures" or spirits. These might be conceived of as pairs of opposites-^-body and spirit, matter and form . . . or . . . might be symbolized as the anti­ thesis of sun and moon (Sol et Luna), red king and white king, brother and sister. . . . The union was represented usually as a mystical marriage . . . (Harding, 1973, 448). Alchemy was considered an obscure art expressed in a language understood only by the initiated. So also in "Mlo XXIV" Conde CL967, 238) refers obscurely to a secret language, "gaviotas fueron las ciguenas de vuelo caballstico.

The Cabala itself was considered to be a source of occult knowledge.

When we recall that sea gulls become the storks of cabalistic flight, we realize that the latter represents the coincidentia oppositorum, the attaining of a form of consciousness which will enable one to decipher the secrets of Mlo.

XXV Ya soy la tierra tambi§n!

Podr§is arrancar desde ml si me hundis vuestras raices. 262

Mis manos os sostendrSn para que describciis la 6rbita siendo siempre mlos (Conde, 1967, 238).

Through the numinous experience she undergoes at the

Escorial, Carmen Conde renews her bonds with the nurturing earth. Now others can sink their roots into her and she will be able to sustain them. She herself becomes an instrument of transformation. "Mis manos os sostendrSn para que describciis la orbita siendo siempre mlos" (Conde,

1967, 238). She is the intermediary who can make possible the orbit of one spiritually transformed. Such a flight is the maximum attainment of transformation. Its course is heavenly. Its pattern is that of the Great Round; its path, circular. Yet, it never ceases to turn around the holy center of the earth. "Jardln de El Escorial," which was first published as a sort of introduction to Mi libro de El Escorial, contains an important synthesis of the poet's experience. Aqul siempre hay silencio, quizS porque la piedra El mSs hondo reposo rezuma para el alma. Los siglos a oleadas vinieron a romperse Bajo la indiferencia erguida de las tapias.

5 Es un jardin sin flores. El boj lo puebla todo, Se cine silencioso con una entrega noble A1 £ngulo de ojos que es proa del Monasterio Enfrente de la verde muchedumbre del bosque. Los montes lo rodean, en un costado abriendo 10 La intensa claridad del limite ambicioso. Las sendas cogen pueblos, y hay un monte dorado CerrSndonos el emplio paisaje silencioso. 263

El tiempo cambia pSjaros: ciguenas, golondrinas, Y hasta los negros cuervos acuden al jardln, 15 Lo vuelan, lo rodean, y emprenden dilatadas Distancias sobre el mar, hasta volver aqul.

Las bolas que rematan las formas de la piedra En boj se reproducen con redondo verdor. Hay fuentes que no manan, muy cerca ya del polvo, 20 Y en la huerta de abajo los maqnolios en flor. (259)

No s§ cucintas ventanas se nutren de paisaje. Hay muchas que no abren jamSs sus puertas verdes. Hay otras que responden a estancias de sosiego, Mas otras que senalan las tumbas de los reyes. 25 Todo se nos olvida cuando aqui nos anclamos. Las nubes y los montes se mueven y hasta nadan. El mundo estci muy lejos, apenas se le siente. La realidad se inviste de tersas campanadas. De oro con el sol y gris cuando atardece. 30 Un pasado que cuenta en la vejez de piedra. Aquel que nada tiene en si, se desmorona. Pero al que aspira al cielo le sostiene la tierra.

Aqul la tierra es dura, hostil y siempre seca. El frlo abrasa el mundo, el sol se lo incorpora. Pero el que tiene espiritu lo vence; asi seiiala 35 Su paso noble y firme en el suelo, en la aurora.

I Solo al que va de paso el jardln no se entrega, ni lo envuelven los bosques con su silencio claro! La adusta majestad del pueblo no le imprime El senorio intangible de su carScter raro. 4 0 Yo aqui pude sacar lo mejor de mi vida. Aprendl a conocerme, a saber lo que quiero. Y no puedo alejarme, para nunca perder Esta seguridad de la tierra y del cielo (Conde, 1967, 260). The first strophe elaborates the silence which per­ meates the Escorial, its patios and its gardens. It shields the poet from the small concerns of everyday reality, opening the mind to the contents of the unconscious. As in Mlo, we 264 see that the giant rock of the monastery is alive. It exudes repose for the soul. Rezumar "to ooze" is a verb which Carmen Conde frequently employs to characterize the natural functioning of a life process. The breasts of a mother rezuman "la vida blanca, espesa y dulce, de la leche" (.Conde, 1967, 283). In another poem, summoning the dream images of her youth she says:

jPero una amante inmensa, rezumlndoos vida, §sa se^a yo si quisier£is olrme (Conde, 1967, 287).

The verb rezumar is used in a positive way. It stands for the ongoing, nourishing quality of life, not for the loss and diminishing of life forces, as might occur, for example, after a mortal would. The Escorial, then, is the living vessel which nourishes the soul. In lines 3 and 4 Carmen Conde treats another facet of the vessel image. Los siglos a oleadas vinieron a romperse Bajo la indiferencia erguida de las tapias (Conde, 1967, 259). The centuries become waves that break against the massive walls of the Escorial. The poet stresses the solid, unchanging character of these walls for they rise with "indiferencia." They are not eroded by the waves of time. That she is in fact elaborating the image of the monastery as a ship does not become clear until the next strophe where she refers to the "cingulo de ojos que es proa del Monasterio" (Conde, 1967, 259). The "Sngulo de ojos" 265

or "Sngulo 6ptico" is defined as "el formado por las dos

visuales que van del ojo del observador a los extremos del objecto que se mira" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la

lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "cingulo"). Accordingly, the

observer forms the apex of an angle whose lines, if drawn,

would create the form of the bow of a ship. Here, however,

we need not content ourselves with lines drawn in the poet's mind, for if one views the Escorial from a distance, any one of its corners surmounted by imposing towers, can become the point of the angle and the corresponding two sides of

the building its lines. The total effect of the image is remarkably like that of a ship (El Escorial octava maravilla del mundo, 1967, photograph 18). Toward the green of the forest sails the ship of the Escorial, its bow lined on both

sides by a hedge of boj (Buxus sempervirens) or boxwood.

There follows an almost photographic description of the Escorial in its natural setting. Into the topographic features the poet weaves the symbolic elements of the poem. We see the monastery surrounded by hills which, on one side, recede before "la intensa claridad del limite ambicioso" CConde, 1967, 259). The intensity of light is said to have an ambitious limit, or, in other words, to be limitless. Going out from the monastery are paths which, like arms, catch up little towns. "El tiempo cambia pSjaros ..." (Conde, 1967, 259). Storks, swallows and crows indicate 266 the passing of the seasons according to the pattern of their migrations.

Lo vuelan, lo rodean, y emprenden dilatadas Distancias sobre el mar, hasta volver aqul (Conde, 1967, 259). When the Escorial is gripped by the severe winter cold which Conde (1967, 236) describes in other poems, the birds have crossed the Mediterranean and are enjoying the warmer climate of Africa. In contrast to the comings and goings of the birds, the Escorial is seasonless. It is

always there when they return.

The only permanent inhabitant of the garden is the boj, for even the fountains are dry. The stone, however,

is alive and the boj forms an appropriate symbol for the

living stone of the Escorial. It grows in evergreen hedges which are pruned into topiary designs (El Escorial octava maravilla del mundo, 1967, photograph 27).

Las bolas que rematan las formas de piedra En boj se reproducen con redondo verdor (.Conde, 1967, 259). It thus has, like the stone, a distinctly architectural quality. The many windows of the monastery portray all the symbolic functions of the human eye. Some, like the eye of the poet gazing outward, "se nutren de paisaje" (Conde, 1967, 260). Others are closed to outer vision and "... no abren jamcis sus puertas verdes" (Conde, 1967, 260). Some of the windows are indeed shuttered by green blinds (El 267

Escorial octava maravilla del mundo, 1967, photograph 160). Others survey inner chambers of tranquility and calm,

"responden a estancias de sosiego" (Conde, 1967, 260), and

still others, "senalan las tumbas de los reyes" (Conde, 1967, 260).

In the psyche slumber many associations we have

either momentarily forgotten. Todo se nos olvida cuando aqui nos anclamos (Conde, 1967, 260). When one drops anchor in the Escorial, she forgets about the

rest of the world. Once more the poet reminds us that the monastery is the ship of the soul. The clouds and the hills merge into one big sea, "... se mueven y hasta nadan" (Conde 1967, 260). The only sounds we hear are "tersas campanadas, ringing out the watches of the soul. For one who willingly undertakes this voyage, the setting is propitious. "... al que aspira al cielo le sostiene la tierra" (Conde, 1967, 260). But those persons who are inwardly empty crumble

before the majesty of the monastery. "Aquel que nada tiene en si, se desmorona" (Conde, 1967, 260). We are reminded of the statement from "Mlo XXIII": "Yo no he visto mSs pequenos a los mortales que los veo a tu lado" (Conde, 1967, 238). In the same way, the Escorial does not yield its spiritual secrets to the casual visitor. jS6lo al que va de paso el jardln no se entrega, Ni lo envuelven los bosques con su silencio claro! (Conde, 1967, 260). 268

But from Carmen Conde nothing is withheld. "Yo agul pude sacar lo mejor de mi vida" (Conde, 1967, 260). She is able to bring forth, to give birth to the best of herself, because as she says to the monastery in "Mio XV," "ha sido aqui, ha sido en ti donde la verdad del mundo logr6 su exactitud con la del sueno" (Conde, 1967, 234). Soothed by the silence that circulates through the rock like a bloodstream, she has learned to know herself and comprehend within the role of the archetypal components of earth and sky, Eros and Logos. This equilibrium, "esta seguridad de la Tierra y del Cielo" (Conde, 1967, 260), is the end result of the spiritual transformation she experiences and something she hopes never to lose. "The garden is the place where Nature is subdued, ordered, selected and enclosed. Hence, it is a symbol of consciousness as opposed to the forest, which is the un­ conscious ..." CCirlot, 1962, s.v. "garden"). Accordingly, it is a most suitable setting for a meditation on the out­ come and meaning of individuation, the process which forms the central drama of the poems entitled Mio. In the course of analyzing poems from Mio, we have had occasion frequently to draw parallels between the creation of the poet and the opus of the alchemist. This comparison becomes possible because both artisans, while concerned with the techniques of their craft, are also inwardly concerned with the process of individuation. It 269 is this process which makes of the Escorial a mandala, and which makes Carmen Conde's visit there a pilgrimage to the center of her psyche. It is for this reason, as well,

that the Escorial assumes the properties of a sacred vessel. Carmen Conde defines the world of the unconscious as Mio, a world which is at once everything and nothing. Through this encounter with what is intrinsically hers, anything is possible. Thus the Escorial, the mandala which assists her in gaining access to the unconscious, becomes a lover. Its most important quality is its heat, the energy which will bring about transformation. With it she enters into a hieros gamos, a sacred marriage, which is the equivalent of saying that she attains psychic equilibrium. Within her there is a coincidentia oppositorum, a reconcilia­ tion of opposites, whose most important manifestation is the sensation of serenity, followed by the experience of ecstasy. CHAPTER 9

THE GOD WITHIN

The poetry of Carmen Conde reveals that ecstasy accompanies the discovery of the god within, an experience closely related to the Jungian process of individuation. Harding tells us that the instinct of self-preservation in man comprehends two trends. On a biological plane the sexual drive leads to relationship, the constitution of the family and the rearing of offspring. On a spiritual plane man has other needs to fulfill. The religious component leads toward the goal of unification within the individual himself, through a union or marriage of the male and female elements within the psyche. For the religious mystic, throughout the ages, this inner marriage has been a symbol of the union of the soul with god. For the psychologist, it signifies the union of the conscious personality with the un­ conscious part of the psyche, whereby the individual is made whole (Harding, 1973, 122).

The concept of the god within is not widely accepted today, a fact which Jung (1969, 58) attributes to the

"prejudice that god is outside man," but there are, he goes on to point out, a number of religions which stress the identity of god and man, even as certain Christian mystics do (Jung, 1969, 58). Harding (1973, 28) concurs with Jung, noting that "In all the more evolved religions, the central

270 271 teaching ... is concerned with the experience of a god within the psyche."

Psychologically, the validity of the notion of the numen is established by the continuous and spontaneous production by the psyche of symbols postulating the quaternity. Jung (1969, 58) considers the quaternity to be a "representation of the god who is manifest in his crea­ tion." Consequently, the spontaneous production in the psyche of the quarternity must lead to a similar conclusion, the notion of the god within man. Jung (1969, 60) con­ tinues:

Since a god identical with the individual man is an exceedingly complex assumption bordering on heresy, the "god within" also presents a dogmatic difficulty. But the quaternity as pro­ duced by the modern psyche points directly not only to the god within, but to the identity of god and man. Further evidence is provided within the Christian tradition by the essentially archetypal character of the life of Christ. Jung notes, for example, that many events in the life of Christ coincide with those of the mythical hero, Christ's father was divine, his birth hazardous and at an early age he showed himself in possession of miraculous powers. Similarly, his death was early and tragic (Jung, 1969, 154). Christ lived an archetypal life and it is for this reason that his experience is so immediately accessible to every man. 272

. . . since the archetype is the unconscious precondition of every human life, its life, when revealed, also reveals the hidden, unconscious ground-life of every individual. That is to say, what happens in the life of Christ happens always and everywhere (Jung, 1969, 89). Now, we have already noted that the realization of the self is the expected outcome of the process of individua­ tion. Hence, it is not surprising to find that Christ as an archetypal figure may be a symbol of the self. The archetypes "are endued with a dignity which has found immemorial expression in godlike figures" (Jung, 1969, 188).

Finally, we must stress the fact that the drama of individuation is played out within the psyche. Quoting Eckhart, Nicoll (1952, 34) comments: "Where creature stops, there god begins." All the liberating inner truth and vision that we need, apart from outer truth and facts about things is, . . . "native within us." It is an internal matter, to be realised first as being in us. The symbol most frequently associated with the dis­ covery of the god within is the appearance of the inner light. "The theme of the light that is found in the darkness forms a familiar mystery teaching" (Harding, 1973, 282). Consequently, we can see that the light in question is not the light of ego consciousness. Rather, it is related to the mysteries and the alchemical concept that spirit is contained in matter. It is this light with which we are dealing, and when it begins to shine, "it is as though the psyche were illumined by an inner sun, and the 273 range of psychological vision is greatly increased" (Harding, 1973, 329). This expanded vision, Nicoll (1952, 23) points out, is a consequence of a change in the quality of consciousness. It is not a matter of a simple increase in the quantity of consciousness, but rather the initiation of a totally different way of seeing. The poet who enters into relationship with the numen embraces a new type of consciousness concomitant with an altered form of percep­ tion.

An examination of the role of the mystical light in mythology and religion will assist us in adequately evaluating the symbolic function of this light in the poetry of Carmen Conde. We may note at the outset the common characteristic which pertains to the experience of the light irrespective of its cultural setting. "... anyone receiving such an experience undergoes a change of being: he acquires another mode of being, which gives him access to the world of the spirit" (Eliade, 1969, 21).

Eliade has studied in detail the beliefs of primi­ tive Australians regarding supernatural light. These people worship a celestial deity named Baiame, whose powers are manifested by an abundance of light. Baiame sits upon a throne of quartz crystals from which he periodically breaks off chunks and hurls them down to earth. These crystals are believed to represent solidified light and, consequently, play an important role in the initiations of 274 the Australian shamans. During this ceremony, the initiate is sprinkled with a solution of liquified quartz. This act represents a ritual death in which it is believed that the neophyte is cut open, his body filled with quartz crystals and then sewn up again. Thus it is supposed that he owes his special powers, the ability to fly, the ability to see spirits and read the thoughts of others, to the fact that light has been implanted in his body (Eliade, 1969, 24).

This ritual portrays in graphic form the change which occurs in the person who has known the light of illumination, indeed, spells out a series of steps designated to bring about that change. In India, we encounter the notion that light symbolizes the creation and the essence of the cosmos. The universe is a manifestation of the divine will at play. For this reason "the sun is the life or the atman—the self—of all things" CEliade, 1969, 26), Being is indicated by the presence of light, and it is through an experience of supernatural light that man becomes aware of being CEliade, 1969, 26). The manner in which the Buddha was illuminated is illustrative. Illumination came to Gautama at dawn as he gazed upon the morning star. For this re.ason the Buddha state is symbolized by a clear, pure light called the

Universal Void CEliade, 1969, 27). The rather complex views and appraisals of the inner light in India and Indo-Tibetan Buddhism can be synthesized 275 into a few major points. First, we must note that an experience of the inner light is coincidental with knowledge of the Ultimate Reality. The perception of the inner light will occur when one becomes aware of the self (atman) or at one's death. This perception will plunge one into being, which is tantamount to saying that one will henceforth function through an altered state of consciousness.

Finally, the appearance of the inner light is considered the manifestation of a divinity (Eliade, 1969, 44). . . . for Indian thought the Light mystically perceived denotes transcendence of this world, of profane and conditioned existence, and the attainment of another existential plane--that of pure being, of the divine, of supreme knowledge and absolute freedom. It is a certain sign of the revelation of ultimate reality--of reality devoid of all attributes (Eliade-, 1969, 44).

While the subject of the mystic light in Christianity is both too vast and too complex to be dealt with here, we shall note a few important parallels to the eastern beliefs just cited. Other configurations will be discussed in rela­ tion to the particular poems of Carmen Conde in which they appear. Eliade points out that the flame is a common symbol for the Holy Ghost. In similar fashion, the image of the flame may be indicative of the state of sanctification. Spiritual perfection bestows upon the one who has achieved it the ability to see Christ's light-body, just as the solidified light of the quartz crystal gives to the initiated Australian medicine-men the power to see things 276 not visible to others. Finally, sanctification will cause the body of the saint to irradiate light much as the body of the Buddhist will shine when he has become one with the ultimate reality (Eliade, 1969, 58).

In conclusion, we find among these geographically divergent views accord. For the scholar of the psyche, the appearance of the inner light in dreams or visions heralds an increase in psychological vision associated with the attainment of a new mode of perception. The primitive Australian insured that his medicine-man would have access to that world of spirit by seeing into him crystals of solidified light. In both India and the Christian west, the experience of the inner light is the manifestation of the divinity which not only bestows upon the one who sees it a heightened form of perception, but also may make him give off an unusual radiance. Of this phenomenon of the inner light, Eliade (1969, 77) concludes: . . . there remains this fact which seems to us fundamental: whatever his previous ideological conditioning, a meeting with the Light produces a break in the subject's existence, revealing to him—or making clearer than before—the world of the Spirit, of holiness and of freedom; in brief, existence as a divine creation, or the world sanctified by the presence of god. In our commentary on the discovery of the numen in the poetry of Carmen Conde, we shall deal first with six of a series of twelve poems published under the subheading of "Amor" in Ansia de la gracia (194 5). These poems record 277 with wonder and joy the awakening of the self. They thus reveal the poet's first tentative awareness of the meaning of the individuation process. Each poem selected repre­ sents the advance to a new stage in awareness. From doubt we move to the exultation of discovery, confirmation and, finally, a profound experience of ecstasy associated with union, the hieros gamos, or blending of the masculine and feminine elements of the psyche. Symbolically this inner progress is documented by a progress from darkest night to dawn, the initial manifestation we shall see of the inner light.

It should be noted as well that these poems from "Amor," although forming the first section of Ansia de la gracia (.1945) were written before the Spanish Civil War and had been previously published under the title of "1930" (Engeman, 1962, 89). The poems of "Amor," then, precede the creation of both "Ifach: Declamaci6n" and the Escorial poems. Accordingly, we feel justified in classifying them as Carmen Conde's first poetic record of the individuation experience.

Following an analysis of the poems of "Amor," we shall examine several later poems noting how the theme of ecstasy persists in the poetry of Carmen Conde and how it is consistently associated with a form of intimate inner dialogue, a conversation, at time, a pleading, with that inner psychic value which psychologists refer to as the god 278

within. As we examine these poems we will find that the

inner light, expressed symbolically first merely as the light of dawn, will be described as coming to reside

specifically within the poet herself. Before proceeding with an analysis of the poems, a few general remarks about the nature of the poetic imagery and language used are appropriate. It has been frequently

noted that the mystics, in attempting to portray what man lacks words to describe, avail themselves of sensual and erotic language. Thus, it is not surprising to find that the same tendency appears in the poetry of Carmen Conde.

Lewis (1971, 58) comments, "Ecstatic communion is . . . essentially a mystical union, and, as the Song of Solomon and other mystical poetry so abundantly illustrate, experi­

ences of this kind are frequently described in terms borrowed from erotic love." This exultant, sensual, lyric description might lead one to believe that the poet is simply recounting an amorous relationship with a lover of flesh and blood. The reader who is content to understand her poetry as just that, need look no further. There is, however, substantial evidence to indicate that these poems portray the evolution of a profound psychological process which borders on the numinous and hence is endowed with all the characteristics of a deeply religious experience.

It is an adequate understanding of the language involved which leads us to penetrate behind the exultant 279 metaphors of the poems. Joseph Campbell has pointed out that the mystery of ultimate reality is nearly always expressed in terms of what he calls oxymoronic paradox. The term oxymoron, he tells us, "... denotes a mode of speech commonly found in Oriental religious texts, where it is used as a device to point past those pairs of opposites by which all logical thought is limited ..." (Campbell, 1973,

188). Jung further elaborates on the virtues of paradox, explaining that it is in fact the only adequate way to describe the unknowable.

. . . uniformity of meaning robs the mystery of its darkness and sets it up as something that is known. That is a usurpation, and it leads the human intellect into hybris by pretending that it, the intellect, has got hold of the transcendent mystery by a cognitive act and has "grasped" it. The paradox therefore reflects a higher level of intellect and, by not forcibly representing the unknowable as known, gives a more faithful picture of the real state of affairs (Jung, 1969, 275). In the previous poems discussed we have established that Carmen Conde is indeed concerned with the timeless reality of the unity of life, a level of being not per­ ceived by many individuals. In this respect, she shares a kinship with the mystics whom she greatly admired. Johnston notes that for centuries the mystics were regarded either as eccentrics or individuals endowed by God with special powers. "Now," he comments, "I believe we can say that they were normal people, making use of faculties inherent in man though the majority of people are unaware 280 of their existence" (Johnston, 1974, 63). As a sensitive poet, Carmen Conde also makes use of these special faculties. It is not surprising, then, that we shall find in her poetry, as in that of the mystics, not only erotic imagery, but also that use of paradox which points to the unity beyond empirical reality.

"Ofrecimiento"

Ac^rcate. Junto a la noche te espero. NSdame. Fuentes profundas y frlas Avivan mi corriente.

Mira que puras son mis charcas. lQu§ gozo el de mi yelol (Conde, 1967, 251). The title of this poem "Ofrecimiento" or "Offering" brings us to a consideration of the ceremony of the Mass in which the individual, through a symbolic offering, partici­ pates in a rite of transformation. Jung has noted that the Mass represents in symbolic form the mystery of God's transformation because it contains in condensed form the life and sufferings of Christ (Jung, 1969, 220). Through the offering of bread and wine man likewise participates in this ceremony of transformation. The symbolism attaching to the gifts is complex and can be summed up under the following headings: on one level, bread and wine are agricultural products, produced as a consequence of man's labors. Hence, they represent a gift of self. On another level, they are products which require additional refinement 281

and transformation as a consequence of human industry. The grain must be gathered, ground and baked. The grape must be

pressed. Its juice must be allowed to ferment and then be distilled. As cultural products, bread and wine also stand for man's psychological achievement, the industry, patience and discipline which he devotes to them. Finally, since each springs from the soil, they have about them the mystery of the vegetative numen, the cycle of growth, flowering, decay and regeneration which characterizes the vegetative world CJung, 1969, 254).

The sacrifice of the Mass involves an essential unity of all those who participate.

In so far as the offered gift is the sacrificer himself, in so far as the priest and congregation offer themselves in the sacrificial gift, and in so far as Christ is both sacrificer and sacrificed, there is a mystical unity of all parts of the sacrificial act CJung, 1969, 221).

It is for this reason that Jung sees the Mass as effecting a state of participation mystique between priest, congregation and Christ so that the mass which, as we have already stated, represents the transformation of God, effects as well the transformation of man. Thus, Jung C1969, 273) feels justified in referring to the Mass as "The rite of the individuation process." Now, had Carmen Conde intended to refer specifically to a religious offering, she would probably have selected as the title of her poem the word ofrenda, "Don que se 282 ofrece y dedica a Dios o a los santos" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "ofrenda").

Instead, she chose the more ambiguous term ofrecimiento,

"acci6n y efecto de ofrecer u ofrecerse" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v.

"ofrecimiento"). The offering she has in mind, then, may encompass more aspects than those specifically related to a religious ceremony, yet we shall find certain important parallels. The less restricted meaning of the term ofrecimiento lends itself to a psychological interpretation as well,

"Ofrecimiento," Carmen Conde's "offering," can perhaps best be interpreted as an invitation to embark on the journey of individuation, prompted by the interaction between the various parts of the psyche. The archetype of the Self, which constellates the drive toward psychic wholeness, prompts the unconscious to say to the conscious, "Ac§rcate." Comments Jung (1969, 39), "I am forced to admit that the unconscious is capable at times of manifesting an intelligence and purposivsiess superior to the actual conscious insight." It is only through a knowledge of the unconscious and the integration of its values into con­ sciousness that wholeness can be attained. Other elements in the poem support our contention. It is a night poem. Says the unconscious to the conscious, "Junto a la noche te 283

espero" CConde, 1967, 251). The second imperative of the poem calls for immersion. NSdame. Fuentes profundas y frias Avivan mi corriente CConde, 1967, 251). We have already observed that the posture of the swimmer supposes a different sort of consciousness. The

conscious mind must relinquish control to the unconscious, must float in it. This immersion may lead to a new form of

wisdom. In analyzing the images Carmen Conde has chosen, we

shall find it illustrative to refer to the works of San Juan de la Cruz for there are many similar metaphors. Carmen

Conde speaks of "fuentes profundas y frias." Cruz (1964,

75), in explicating his Cgntico espiritual, explains that the

wellspring is a symbol for faith from which, "le manan al alma las aguas de todos los bienes espirituales." The faith of the mystic certainly does not pertain to the logical categories of the reasoning mind. It has more in common with the qualities of the unconscious, which become for the poet a source of wisdom. The poem concludes: Mira quS puras son mis charcas. JQU§ gozo el de mi yelo! (Conde, 1967, 251).

Referring once more to Cruz (1964, 100), we find that agua pura stands for the "sabiduria de Dios." Twice the poet makes reference to the cold water that issues from the metaphoric wellspring. Here we are not concerned with 284 the solidification symbolism of ice, which may carry a negative value. We know that the waters are moving. Their coldness stresses rather their freshness, their purity, the wisdom of the unconscious not reinterpreted in the form of dogma. Cirlot (1962, s.v. "ice") says of ice, "The coldness implies resistance to all that is inferior . . . ." Conde (1967, 251) says, "jQu§ gozo el de mi yelo!" These images suggest that immersion in the unconscious will bring about a fresh perspective, the expanded consciousness of one who has embarked upon the journey of individuation.

In explaining what he intended when he wrote Ccintico espiritual, Cruz (1964, 64) comments:

El orden que llevan estas canciones es desde que un alma comienza a servir a Dios hasta que llega al tiltimo estado de perfecci6n, que es matrimonio espiritual; y asl, en ellas se tocan los tres estados o vias de ejercicio espiritual por las cuales pasa el alma hasta llegar al dicho estado, que son: purgativa, iluminativa y unitiva y se declaran acerca de cada una algunas propiedades y efectos de ella.

In making frequent reference to San Juan de la Cruz, it is not our intention to suggest that Carmen Conde is a mystic nor that she experiences union with God as San Juan de la Cruz understood it. Yet the experience of the mystic represents the most perfect metaphor known to man for the attainment of psychic unity and there can be little doubt th^t Carmen Conde does address herself to that problem. Returning to the title we can now understand the real 285 meaning of the offering. What the poet offers is herself. She opens herself to mystery of spiritual transformation. The next important step in the psychic drama which the poet experiences is set forth in a poem entitled "Inquietud."

£D6nde se guarda la estrella mla, mi cristal de amor?

La noche me niega su torso de aurora y vamos extrarias, desprendidas, sin coincidir jamlts.

Y esta ternura que cine mis hombros, que entolda el oro de mi coraz6n. cPara qu§, si estoy buscando el agua y s6lo conozco el eco de la fuente? (Conde, 1967, 252}.

The poet wonders what has become of her guiding light, "la estrella mla, mi cristal de amor" (Conde, 1967, 252). Its absence fills her with anxiety, inquietud. We notice that whereas in "Ofrecimiento" she waited at the edge of night, she is now plunged into darkness and is overcome by a sense of disorientation. La noche me niega su torso de aurora y vamos extrarias, desprendidas, sin coincidir jamas (Conde, 1967, 252),

She envisions the crystal as a great luminous body for she refers to its "torso de aurora" which night conceals from her. Now a torso is a partial body, a trunk without legs or arms but, most importantly, without a head. This image tells us a great deal about the nature of the light 286

which the crystal emits. It is not a cerebral light, the

discerning light of logos which analyzes and categories.

Rather it is the light contained in matter, symbolized by

the torso. It is the light of illumination and revelation

experienced via contact with the unconscious. It is this

form of guidance, denied to her by the night, that Carmen Conde's estrella might reveal to her could she but find it. Carmen Conde refers to her star as "mi cristal de amor." It is worth noting some of the symbolical attributes

of the crystal, which is a not infrequent image in dreams. Associating it with the process of individuation, Frances Wickes calls it the foursquare stone. "In the Eastern philosophy, it is spoken of as the diamond body, the indestructible essence. In alchemy, it is the philosopher's

stone, the lapis, symbolizing the treasure at the center of

the psyche" (Wickes, 1948, 131). Thus, while the star has traditionally represented the light which guided, for example, the mariner through the night, the crystal is a symbol frequently produced by the psyche in dreams to guide man toward his ultimate goal, psychic wholeness. Harding documents an additional parallel. Individuation is an on­ going process not to be realized overnight. Each moment of conflict or crisis may bring the questing individual in contact with the depths of the psyche. These experiences she sees as a series of lines converging on the center. She concludes, "When the lines do actually meet, there will be 287 formed a star that begins to glow, foreshadowing the coming of that radiant 'crystal body' whose name is Self" (Harding, 1973, 358). Two scholars of the psyche, then, view the

crystal, whose form is also that of the star, as a symbol of psychic evolution toward the self.

Lost in the darkness the poet is seized by a

paradox.

cPara qu§, si a nada le soy amor, soy yo amor en lo desconocido mio? (Conde, 1967, 252).

Why, she asks, if she is "love to nothing," that is if. she does not represent the image of love to anything, is

she love within herself, "en lo desconocido mio" (Conde, 1967, 252). Here we may recall our discussion of "Mio IV," in which it was established that the term mio refers to the world of non-ego. While she says she does not represent love to anything, nevertheless she identifies amorous feelings in the core of her being, in the unconscious. What she has postulated is love without relationship, Eros un­ fulfilled. Consequently, she is troubled by inguietud, an emotional uneasiness. Here we may note with interest the commentary by San Juan de la Cruz on the esposa, the soul, who grieves when, searching for the Amado, God, she cannot find him.

Es de notar que la ausencia del Amado causa continuo gemir en el amante, porque como fuera de §1 nada ama, en nada descansa ni recibe alivio; de donde en esto se conocerS el que de 288 veras a Dios ama, si con ninguna cosa menos que §1 se contenta (Cruz, 1964, 65).

The inquietud which Carmen Conde expresses results, however, not from the absence of the loved one, but rather from the fact that while recognizing the stirrings of love within her, she has not identified who the Amado is. It is revealing to note that a later poem in this series, which we will not discuss in the present study, is entitled precisely, "Ausencia del amante" (Conde, 1967, 254). In the last strophe, the same question is rephrased. Y esta ternura que cine mis hombros, que entolda el oro de mi coraz6n. dPara quS, si estoy buscando el agua y s6lo conozco el eco de la fuente? (Conde, 1967, 252). In the world of non-ego, "en lo desconocido mio" (Conde, 1967, 252), she feels a tenderness which covers her shoulders like a cloak and forms a protective awning over the gold of her heart. This protective covering prevents the gold of her heart from shining forth in the night. The poem appears to contain within itself the answer to the question it poses. Carmen Conde begins by asking, 11 cDonde se guarda la estrella mla ... ?" (Conde, 1967, 252) and in the last strophe she gives us a clue. The light she is seeking is the "oro de mi coraz6n" (Conde, 1967, 252), the spiritual light within herself, which radiates the love she feels. The gold of the heart is also the treasure (individuation) at the center of the psyche. 289 A clearer statement as to the exact meaning of this inner light, employing identical symbols, appears in a much later poem from Derribado arclingel (1960). Lo ponderado celeste mio; tti, solamente tta: mi cristal. Renuncia a entender, Renuncia a saber. Actua en silencio.

Eres integro vuelo. Vuelo de mi coraz6n que te ama. jNo mires hacia m£; levSntate, levcintate contigol Te llevo y me llevas; Vamos, oh amor lirnpio, vamos. Dej&ndome, dejSndote aqui, sobre la arena (Conde, 1967, 681). Once more we find a poetic elaboration of the "cristal de amor." Here she defines it more specifically as a spiritual quality, "lo ponderado celeste m£o" (Conde,

1967, 681), but now she no longer envisions it as function­ ing as a guide or point of orientation. Rather it is an inner force, precious like a crystal, which works through silence, without understanding, "entender," and without knowledge, "saber." It is an intuitive inner motion,

"Integro vuelo," which uplifts her. She and her crystal, which she also refers to as "amor limpio," are one being.

"Te llevo y me llevas" (Conde, 1967, 681). In the spiritual uplift which she and this inner surge of love, her "cristal," experience together, they ascend leaving the earthbound portion of each, her body, on the sand of the unnamed beach which is the scene of this poem. 290

The "integro vuelo" of Derribado arcangel is still a long way from being realized in "Inquietud." "Inquietud" represents rather the first intimations of such a possi­ bility. The tenderness the poet feels presages a great psychic event to come, but at this point it is more a source of puzzlement,

dPara quS, si estoy buscando el agua y solo conozco el eco de la fuente? CConde, 1967, 252).

The poet tells us that she is looking for the water but hears only the echo of the wellspring. The water she seeks represents an aspect of the unconscious, "the non- formal, dynamic, motivating, female side of the personality"

CCirlot, 1962, s.v. "water"), the qualities of Eros which signify relatedness. Although she has not found that quality yet, several factors indicate that she is moving in the right direction. Both the inexplicable tenderness she feels and the echo of the wellspring point to an important psychic happening in the near future. The uneasiness which the poet experiences and the loneliness she knows in "Ausencia del amante" finally culminate in a poem of revelation and recognition entitled "Encuentro." jGloria de tu hallazgo! Bautismo inicial de la primavera en oleaje de pSjaros. 291

Se movieron las selvas inefables. Se deshizo el otofio de sus plumas cubriendo inviernos cUndidos.

Venfas tCi, gentil criatura, desnudando los rlos a tu paso (Conde, 1967, 254). The poet has identified the object of her love, the "gentil criatura," who dwells within her. The encounter is cause for joyous celebration. "jGloria de tu hallazgo!" The event is an unusual one related to the turning of the seasons and the rejuvenation of spring. Bautismo inicial de la primavera en oleaje de pSjaros (Conde, 1967, 254).

Christian baptism, originally carried out by the immersion of the initiate in water, signified his admittance into the faith and his endowment with an immortal soul

(Harding, 1973, 174). "Baptism," says Eliade (1965, 59),

"is equivalent to the ritual death of the old man followed by a new birth. On the cosmic level, it is equivalent to the deluge: abolition of contours, fusion of all forms, return to the formless." This "bautismo inicial," then, is at once an initiation and the first rite of spring. For the poet it means the revelation of a new spirituality. This encounter is the cosmic event to which Eliade refers. The contours, the categories of consciousness fuse, leading to the perception of reality as unity. This blending of categories is expressed poetically through the use of a double metaphor. Whereas we might think of the first 292 baptism of spring as a rising and flooding of water, the poet makes it a feathery immersion. It is a baptism "en oleaje de p&jaros" CConde, 1967, 254), as the forest is swept over by a huge wave of migrating birds, returning to their summer habitat. "Every winged being," comments

Cirlot C1962, s.v. "bird"), "is symbolic of spiritualiza- tion." The poetrin transposing the baptismal elements, makes it clear that this rite of spring, this initiation, represents the attainment of a new form of consciousness.

The second strophe describes the preparation for the rite. "Se movieron las selvas inefables" (Conde, 1967, 254). The departure of the migrating birds creates the impression that the whole forest has taken flight, heralding the coming of a cosmic event. For this reason, the forests are inefables. The experience of the initiation is so overwhelming that it defies verbal description. The feathers of the birds are seen as expressive of seasonal change as are the leaves of trees.

Se deshizo el otofio de sus plumas cubriendo inviernos cSndidos (Conde, 1967, 254). The feathers of the birds become the snows of white winters, "inviernos cSndidos." Describing the molting habits of birds, Harvey I. Fisher writes: After the young are raised, the annual molt of the adult occurs. This molt, coming at the end of the breeding season when the feathers are worn and frayed by all the activity of 293

raising a brood of hungry young, is usually the most complete and is undergone annually during the life of the individual. Some birds repeat each year the fall molt, which produces the winter plumage (Collier's Encyclopedia, 1967, s.v. "birds"). Leaves and feathers are shed before winter as the earth undergoes a period of dormancy and rest that will prepare it for the growth of spring. In similar fashion, the psyche may experience a period of introspection and apparent inactivity which precedes a sudden release of

"springtime" energy. In this symbolic fashion, the poet prepares us for the glorious hallazgo, as she returns in the last strophe to the theme of the encounter.

Venlas td, gentil criatura, desnudando los rlos a tu paso (Conde, 1967, 254).

In a sense it is not she who finds him, but he who finds her, rising on the natural flood of spring energy. He is a portent of the god within, the herald of spiritual transformation. She refers to him as "gentil criatura," in regard to which we should like to note the acceptation in Spanish of the word criatura as, "nino de poco tiempo" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "criatura"). Harding (1973, 150) observes that such a term was not infrequently employed by the mystics when describing spiritual transformation, which "... was often spoken of as due to a rebirth of the soul and was sometimes termed the birth of the divine child within." He comes 294 "desnudando los rlos" CConde, 1967, 254), as he passes.

Desnudar indicates an uncovering or laying bare. "Revela­

tion, 11 says Jung (1969, 74), "is an 'unveiling' of the

depths of the human soul first and foremost, a 'laying

bare'; hence it is an essentially psychological event

. . . The baptism of spring, then, is a rite of initia­

tion which reveals to the poet the presence of the god

within. Henceforth in the poems of "Amor," we shall see

that she has no doubts about the identity of this being whom she comes to refer to as "amor m£o" CConde, 1967, 257).

"Posesi6n" Caias en ml. Eco de tu pesantez mi vida, era una canci6n precipitSndose en la eternidad. Inmerso en mi silencio eres el cielo que sostiene un arroyo, que levanta un Srbol. En que un lucero corta su voz de eternidad CConde, 1967, 255).

The revelation of the inner being, the constellation of the incipient self, is followed by the sensation that the poet has been possessed by him. She is Eros, the eternal feminine, fecundated by Logos, the masculine principle, and she is the vessel of poetry into which the waters of inspiration pour. "Caias en mi" (Conde, 1967, 255). Commenting on the psychological qualities associated with the masculine and feminine principles, Harding (1973, 142) points out that "... woman's sexuality manifests itself 295 in a yearning passivity, a desire to have something carried out upon her; it produces a burden of inertia that is the exact counterpart of man's instinctive drive." This "burden of inertia" we have seen operative in the previous poems of "Amor." In "Ofrecimiento" we noted an invitation to relationship which could not be fulfilled without the participation of the masculine principle. In "Inquietud" the intimation of approaching relationship is disquieting because the poet does not perceive how it will be realized.

She is' separated from the guiding star, disoriented. These directive capacities represent the qualities of Logos. In

"Encuentro" the poet is exultant, for with the discovery of the god within, relationship will ensue, and the joining of the forces of Eros and Logos will clear the way to individua­ tion, overcoming the inertia which the feminine principle suffers by itself. In "PosesiSn," the poet rejoices in the forces that fill her, activating her role as the womb of creation, Eco de tu pesantez mi vida, era una canci6n precipitSndose en la eternidad (Conde, 1967, 255). Her life is an echo that resounds from contact with the weight of her possessor, and she responds to the marriage of the masculine and feminine principles within her. Her life becomes "una canci6n precipitSndose / en la eternidad" (Conde, 1967, 255), a song that sends her hurtling into eternity, the overpowering experience of 296 cosmic consciousness. In this regard Nicoll points out two factors which must be borne in mind. First, we must be aware that above our ordinary level of consciousness there is another which we customarily ignore, and secondly, that when we do awake to this greater reality, "our ordinary consciousness becomes integrated into a larger system

. . ." (Nicoll, 1952, 25).

The second part of the poem further elaborates the dynamic of container and contained. Immersed in the silence of the poet, in her womb-mind, the invading force inspires a series of poetic images which define its relationship to her. She says to it: Eres el cielo que sostiene un arroyo, que levanta un Srbol (Conde, 1967, 255). We note immediately that the tQ of the poem is associated with the sky, uranus, the logos principle, but that this sky is a microcosmic sky contained within her silence. These two lines lend themselves to a double interpretation inasmuch as the subject and object of the line can be reversed without damaging the structure grammatically. They may read "you are the sky which a stream sustains, which a tree raises up." In this sense we see the sky, the masculine attributes, reflected in the waters of the stream and we see the mythological world in which the heavens rest upon the tops of the trees. The masculine principle resides over the feminine, the water 297 and the tree, a form of vegetation, associated with the feminine earth. Now, let us observe what happens when we reverse the subject-object roles and read the line the other way round. "You are the sky which sustains a stream, which raises up Csupports) a tree." Here we are dealing with quite another conception of the world order, suggestive of that other reality perceived by those awakened through the experience of cosmic consciousness. Here is a new reality with the traditionally feminine attributes arising from the masculine, the sky, instead of the reverse situation. This double interpretation captures perfectly the meaning of the blending of masculine and feminine which can occur in the hieros gamos. A complete reversal of the normal order of empirical reality is possible. This paradoxical and ambiguous phrasing points beyond the confines of our normal limited vision. Explains Johnston (1974, 64), "Language from one state of consciousness just does not fit the other."

The existence of a burgeoning spiritual evolution is borne out by the last series of symbols in the poem. Eres el cielo que sostiene un arroyo, que levanta un Srbol. En que un lucero corta su voz de eternidad (Conde, 1967, 255). The loving force that fills the poet is also a sky in which shines a lucero, a morning star. Here is the guiding light, the star, the "cristal de amor," noticeably absent from the night sky of 11 Inquietud." As the song is 298 the form of expression common to the poet and the voice the means by which it is realized, so the emission of brilliant light is the expression of a celestial body. We therefore feel justified in understanding the voice of the star as a metaphor for its light. The star cuts its voice on the trunk of the cosmic tree. In this poem as in others the tree can only be a reference to the poet herself. The morning star which begins to shine within her announces the approaching dawn of "Lo infinito." "Lo infinito" Tfi vives en el Alba. Los pSjaros te aclaman. De ttinica de aves te viste la alegria. jQue aurora la que exaltas!

I Que noble luz la tuya! Te excuchan las mananas y las noches porque eres como un rlo, porque eres como un corzo.

Sentirte a ti que pasas rozcindome las rosas y los ayes ... Doler en tus rodillas, estrujada por riscos y malezas ... Y que un cgfiro de alondras venga dulce, que ttS llegues aventando mis heridas .. . Ser mujer y tuya, iQu§ inefable fundirse la conciencia entre tus brazos! CConde, 1967, 255).

The morning star of "Posesi6n" prefigures the dawn of "Lo infinito." From the night of "Ofrecimiento," we have followed a steady course toward daylight. In the commentary on Ccintico espiritual, San Juan de la Cruz explains the 299 symbolic implications of the dawn for the soul who seeks union with god. .. . asf como los levantes de la mariana despiden la noche y descubren la luz del dla, as! este esplritu sosegado y quieto en Dios es levantado de la tiniebla del conocimiento natural a la luz matutinal del conocimiento sobrenatural de Dios, no claro, sino, como dicho es, oscuro, como noche en par de los levantes de la aurora; porque as£ como la noche en par de los levantes, ni del todo es noche, ni del todo es dla, sino como dicen, entre dos luces, as! esta soledad y sosiego divino, no con toda claridad es informado de la luz divina, ni deja de participar algo de ella (Cruz, 1964, 80).

Dawn shares the worlds of darkness and light pre­ figuring the real illumination which is still to come. Carmen Conde's "gentil criatura" dwells in the dawn where light and darkness intermingle.

Ttj vives en el Alba. Los pSjaros te aclaman. De ttinicas de aves te viste la alegria. j"Qu§ aurora la que exaltas! (Conde, 1967, 255). He is adorned by the voices of exultant birds, whose first songs burst forth at this hour. The dawning within her which he symbolizes is a very special one. "jQu§ noble luz la tuya!" (Conde, 1967, 255). It is a moment of spiritual awakening in which the inner light is equated with the inner voice.

Te escuchan las mananas y las noches porque eres como un rlo, porque eres como un corzo (Conde, 1967, 255).

Both day and night listen to this inner voice. It can speak to those awake and those asleep, through vision 300 or through dream. The tu of this poem is compared to both a river and a deer. The corzo of Carmen Conde is reminiscent of the ciervo from the CHntico espiritual of San Juan de la Cruz, which having wounded the soul with desire for mystic union, flees.

In analyzing "Lo infinito," it is worth noting that

San Juan de la Cruz, in Cdntico espiritual, uses the same comparison employed by Carmen Conde. The Amado is likened to both a river and a deer. For the latter comparison he gives the following comparison.

CompSrase el Esposo al ciervo, porque aqul por el ciervo entiende a si mismo. Y es de saber que la propiedad del ciervo es subirse a los lugares altos, y cuando estli herido vase con gran priesa a buscar refrigerio a las aguas frlas; y se oye quejar a la consorte y siente que estS herida, luego se va con ella y la regala y acaricia. Y as£ hace ahora el esposo, porque viendo a la Esposa herida de su amor, §1 tambien al gemido de ella viene herido del amor de ella; porque en los enamorados la herida de uno es de entrambos, y un mismo sentimiento tienen los dos CCruz, 1964, 77). The Amado is compared to a river because:

Los rlos tiene tres propiedades: la primera, ue todo lo que encuentran lo embisten y anegan; ; a segunda, que hinchen todos los bajos vacios que hallan delante; la tercera, que tienen tal sonido, que todo otro sonido privan y ocupan. Y porque en esta comunicaci6n de Dios que vamos diciendo, siente el alma en §1 estas tres 301

propiedades muy sabrosamente, dice que su Amado es los rlos sonorosos (Cruz, 1964, 79).

It is hoped that these same qualities will apply to the tti of "Lo infinito." Like the ciervo of San Juan who feels compassion for the suffering of his mate, the poet hopes that the gentil criatura will comfort her. Similarly, as the esposa feels overwhelmed by the river that is the

Amado, Carmen Conde feels overcome by the tti of "Lo infinito."

As the esposa of Cantico espiritual is wounded by the Amado, the poet feels overwhelmed by the god within. Sentirte a ti que pasas rozandome las rosas y los ayes ... CConde, 1967, 255). She senses his nearness. He passes barely touching her breasts, "las rosas," and, arousing a desire which is painful, "los ayes." Like the esposa of the CSntico espiritual, she has followed him through darkness toward dawn. Her inner wounds are reflected by outer wounds.

She is "estrujada / por riscos y malezas ..." (Conde, 1967,

255). She has pursued him through brambles and rocky places and is covered with bruises. Jung comments that such wounds do not come from outside but rather from our own unconscious. "It is our own repressed desires that stick like arrows in our flesh" (Jung, 1967, 287). When this happens, a state of introversion may occur followed by a renewed flow of psychic energy (Jung, 1967, 292). 302 The wound anticipates the dismemberment or dissolv­ ing of the conscious outlook which precedes the attaining of an altered state of consciousness. The poet imagines the ecstasy experienced by the esposa and the Araado and longs to place her head in the lap of the god within, "doler en tus rodillas" CConde, 1967, 255), just as the esposa reclines in the arms of the Amado. EntrSdose ha la Esposa en el ameno huerto deseado, y a su sabor reposa, el cuello reclinado sobre los dulces brazos del Amado CCruz, 1964, 88). In matters of love, San Juan comments, the wound can be healed only by the one who inflicted it CCruz, 1964,

66). Thus, Carmen Conde longs for the god within to come like a morning breeze and heal her wounds. Y que un c^firo de alondras venga dulce, que ttf llegues aventando mis heridas ... CConde, 1967, 255). The breath of the god which will ease the pain of her wounds is a "c^firo de alondras," a breeze of larks. As the lark is the bird of dawn, famous for singing on the wing, the poet here unites the last strophe with the first, identifying for us the birds she has previously mentioned. The celestial pneuma prefigures the healing of ecstasy.

Ser mujer y tuya, iqu£ inefable fundirse la conciencia entre tus brazos! CConde, 1967, 255). 303 San Juan de la Cruz envisions this state as a holy- union between the soul, the esposa, and God, the Amado.

Carmen Conde describes it as a fusion with the spiritual being who dwells within her. The boundaries of the conscious mind are erased. They are heated to such a pitch by the intensity of the encounter that they melt and the two portions of her psyche are fused into one. Eros is joined to Logos, overcoming any conflicts which wound or disfigure the psyche. This direct experience of the primordial unity is "lo infinito." "Amor m£o" Distancias de la niebla, envejecidas distancias del Dolor: JQU£ hermosa aurora cerca del tallo de tu voz, de tu respiro! Por ti los anos se deshielan grises, por ti las horas se desnudan tiernas, JAmor tan mlo! Tu cuerpo y mi pasi6n, dos resonancias en medio de la vida que concurre. Despi§rtame. Saca tu lanza oscura del mundo en claridad que es mi tormenta. Y llgvame por tl, oh amor del mlo, y ll§/ame de ml, que desfallezco. Eres t(i mi espejo, la jornada .que no puede temer ser consumida CConde, 1967, 257).

The last poem of "Amor" shows how the relationship with the god within, her love, has gripped her soul. Having experienced first "inquietud," followed by "gloria," and then the sensation of "lo infinito," Carmen Conde now refers to the god within as "amor mlo." In this poem she details 304

the transformations she has undergone and states how she

functions in relation to this psychological entity within her.

Distancias de la niebla, envejecidas distancias del Dolor: jqu§ hermosa aurora cerca del tallo de tu voz, de tu respiro! (Conde, 1967, 257).

Without her inner light, "jQue noble luz la tuya!" (Conde, 1967, 255), life is clouded with mist, obscure and painful. But the distances, the confusion and isolation created by thick mist belong to the past. They are

"envejecidas." In this regard, we must note that pain and frustration are associated with the life style of the average socially conditioned Western man or woman who has not experienced the breakthrough to a new level of conscious­ ness, which we have seen as an integral part of Carmen Conde's discovery of the god within. When one is released from the illusion of time, Watts C1968, 16) tells us, "One is delivered from the mania of pursuing a future which one does not have." Thus, we can understand the "envejecidas / distancias del dolor" as associated with dark epoch of the poet life which precedes the relationship with her love and the knowledge of the inner light.

Now the painful mists, the confusion of the past, have been replaced by the magnificent dawn of her spiritual awakening. In the dawn dwells her love. She awakens near his guiding voice which she compares to the stem of a plant, 305

shooting up within her, nourished by the chthonic qualities

of the earth. She awakens near his breathing, his "respiro," that celestial breath which first healed her wounds.

It is because of the numinous experience of the god

within that she has been released from the conventional notions of time. "Time," Watts (1968, 60) explains, "is a

concept, a theory, abstracted from memory." "Eternity,11 by contrast, is something quite else.

It is the negation of the concept of time. It involves no positive statement. It merely points out that the notion of reality as extended through past, present, and future is a theory and not a real, first-hand experience (Watts, 1968, 62).

In the light of these observations, we can readily comprehend the next lines of the poem.

Por ti los arios se deshielan grises, por ti las horas se desnudan tiernas jAmor tan mlo! (Conde, 1967, 257).

The love within her has rendered conventional time meaningless. The years merge grayly, "se deshielan grises." They melt into one another becoming a continuity and

abolishing the arbitrary divisions, arios, into which man divides time. "Las horas se desnudan tiernas" (Conde, 1967, 257). The hours shed their distinctive clothing. As they undress, they too lose their distinguishing features and

conform to a new "timeless" time. In this continuum, a new relationship of equilibrium has been established. 306

Tu cuerpo y mi pasi6n, dos resonancias en medio de la vida concurre (Conde, 1967, 257).

His body, his spiritual nucleus, born of the inter­ action of Eros and Logos, and her "pasi6n," her vital force, are "dos resonancias," defined as "sonido producido por repercusi6n de otro" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "resonancia"). Their relationship is one of mutual interaction. They are complementary entities, not in two distinct lives coming together, but in her life, "en medio de la vida que concurre" (Conde, 1967, 257). Had she meant to refer to passing time and a lover of flesh and blood rather than a psychological entity, she would probably have rephrased the line to read "en medio de la vida que transcurre." By using the verb concurrir, "coincidir en el tiempo varias cosas" (Diccionario general ilustrado de la lengua espanola, 1973, s.v. "concurrir"), she suggests the simultaneity of psychic events that indicates the abolition of linear time.

In the third strophe of the poem Carmen Conde exhorts her love: Despi^rtame. Saca tu lanza oscura del mundo en claridad que es mi tormenta (Conde, 1967, 257).

Nicoll, in Living Time, discusses the concept of awakening which he equates with self-knowledge. "Because we are told everywhere in the gospels to be awake, is it not clear that we are at the same time being told that we are 307

asleep, and that self-knowledge is to realise that one is asleep" CNicoll, 1952, 68). Carmen Conde has expressed the same idea in "Honda memoria de ml." Velar significa querer. Dormir es meterse en la cueva que el dla oculta. Yo quiero velar. Yo velo mi querencia de velar (.Conde, 1967, 356). Being asleep is being unaware of the light because it is as though one were in a cave where the rays of the sun do not penetrate. But the light of the divinity is a source of illumination. Nicoll (1952, 70) continues: The idea of the Christian teaching at its source, before it became externalised and organised into machinery, was about awakening from sleep through the light shed by the inner meaning of the teaching. Christ was one who had awakened and taught others one way of awakening.

Thus, Carmen Conde wants to be awakened and with­ drawn from the "mundo en claridad" which torments her. The world of claridad, which is the world of consciousness, must be distinguished from the inner world with its light of revelation. It is from the former that she seeks release. Thus she says to her love, "Saca tu lanza oscura / del mundo en claridad ..." (Conde, 1967, 257). In the realm of myth, man is sometimes seen as descended from the lance. ". . . the ash is the mother of lances; therefore the men of the Bronze Age are derived from her" (Jung, 1967, 288).

Carmen Conde's feminine sympathy for the world of growing 308 things makes the lance a metaphor for the root and by extension, for herself.

c,Qu§ dia espera el tiempo, cual el aire, y por que Dios me quiere parda lanza dentro de su tierra dura? (Conde, 1967, 278).

Similarly, in "Paris," she uses the root as a symbol for her own identity.

No me pierdo extrana. Encuentro mi raiz entre las otras que por siglos ensenan sus boscajes (Conde, 1967, 479).

It thus does not seem improbable that the "lanza oscura" about which she speaks is a reference to herself.

Her uprooting from empirical reality presages a new mode of transformation. y ll^vame por ti, oh amor del mlo, y ll^vame de ml, que desfallezco (Conde, 1967, 257).

She wants to embark upon an inner journey, a journey through the kingdom of the god within, under the guidance of her special love, "amor del m£o," love of the sort which only she experiences. This journey will be at the same time a going away from herself, away from the apparent world of clarity. It will involve a loss of consciousness, a rapture, a mystic swoon. Carmen Conde speaks of desfallecimiento, of being carried out of herself. The symptoms she mentions are the same related by the mystics when they undergo union with god. Comments Cruz (1964, 92) of the twenty-sixth strophe of C^ntico espiritual: 309

Cuenta el alma en esta canci6n la soberana merced que Dios le hizo en recogerla en lo Intimo de su amor, que es la uni6n o transformaciSn de amor en Dios, y dice dos efectos que de all! saco, que son olvido y enajenaciSn de todas las cosas del mundo, y mortificaci6n de todos sus apetitos y gustos.

So great is the poet's yearning to be joined to the god within that she already experiences olvido y enajenaci6n, "y llevame de ml, que desfallezco" (Conde, 1967, 257). The poem concludes with an exact statement about the nature of the god within.

Eres tti mi espejo, la jornada que no puede temer ser consumida CConde, 1967, 257). He is her mirror because he reflects a portion of herself. Harding (1973, 387) comments, . .a symbol arising out of unconscious depths is not made; it is a true mirror image of how things are in the unseen part of the psyche." Machado (1966, 198) has phrased the same thought in an epigram:

Mas busca en tu espejo al otro, al otro que va contigo.

Carmen Conde's god within is a mirror because he reflects what is happening in her psyche. Paradoxically he reflects himself, for he is the other who accompanies her. For the same reason, he represents the "jornada que no puede temer ser consumida" (Conde, 1967, 257). This day's journey leads to the other reality, beyond sidereal time where the destruction of forms is not feared, and death 310 becomes a friend. As Rilke (1963, 77) says to Earth in the "Ninth Elegy,"

You were always right, and your holiest inspiration's Death, that friendly Death. Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future are growing less. . . . Supernumerous existence wells up in my heart.

The poems of "Amor" constitute a thematic unit.

They are a record of the ecstasy which accompanies the dis­ covery of the god within and the stages of the evolving relationship. Jung (1967, 86) establishes the validity of the concept of the god within, stating that, "psychic energy or libido creates the god-image by making use of archetypal patterns, and that man in consequence worships the psychic force active within him as something divine." Universally that god-image manifests itself as an inner light. The six poems here discussed reveal a trajectory of profound spiritual significance. In "Ofrecimiento," the poet offers herself as one willing to undertake an initia­ tion into the meaning of the light. "Inquietud" posits her initial disorientation in the night of the unconscious, still unaware that within herself there is, in fact, a golden light, a spiritual guide. "Encuentro" marks the joyous discovery and the initiation through a metaphorical baptism into a new mode of perception. In "Posesi6n" begins the interaction of Eros and Logos which will lead to the fusion of ecstasy. "Lo infinito" stresses the 311 emergence of the poet into dawn where once more she expresses a desire to dissolve herself in the embrace of the god within. In "Amor mlo," her inner counterpart is definitively defined. Through him she will attain the ultimate reality. Each step along the way marks an increase in the intensity of the ecstatic experience until, in the last poem, we see her pleading, "y ll^vame de mi, que desfallezco" CConde, 1967, 257).

In the remaining pages of this chapter we shall consider four poems dealing with different aspects of the ecstatic experience composed at a later period within the framework of Carmen Conde's poetic creation. Our intent is to demonstrate that ecstasy continues to be a major theme in Carmen Conde's work and the technique by which she typically attempts to portray the resolution of conflict. "Arrebato," the last poem of Ansia de la gracia

C1945) like "Lo infinito" and "Amor M£o" posits the desire for the ecstatic experience and the consequent loss of self in the greater reality of the god within, Y si es a ti a quien busco cPor qu§ no te me ofreces de un sorbo? cPor quS de un solo canto no cae tu voz en ml? cPor quS no me desborda tu empuje de oc£ano 5 Y toda te reboso cual cauce a un fiero rto Que sale de su madre, y bana las orillas, Se lleva las ralces, las aves y los vientos?

Que si eres tti mi forma, si vas a ser mi sino,

15 jAh lejos de los lejos, criatura que no veo! ]De culntas sacudidas me puebla desearte! Quisiera conocerte, olr tu voz violenta, Oler tu Sspero cuerpo de fuerza en arrebato. Poder saber que voy a un dla y hacia un tiempo. 2 0 Dormirme a Ti doblada, sentirte aqul en mi oido .... Que ya la sangre ahoga de tanto presentirte, Y si eres Tli mi fin, te pido que me llames Con una voz, la tuya, que sea voz del cielo. 25 Y, jCarmen!, si me llamas, serS toda una brasa Que funda tu palabra hasta quedarse muerta (Conde, 1967, 291). For Carmen Conde, arrebato, "arrebatamiento" or "extasis" is a result of pasion. It is a state induced by the frenzied motion of psychic energy seeking resolution or, stated in other words, seeking psychic wholeness. It is Eros longing for union with Logos here envisioned as the figure of the god within, the Tu, of the poem. It is a poem of mystic search expressed in language that is both sensual and suggestive of violence. The poem begins with a question directed to the other part of the psyche, to the one within.

Y si es a Ti a quien busco, dpor qu§ no te me ofreces de un sorbo? If the god within is the object of her quest, why are there obstacles which continually hinder the consumma­ tion of the desired union, the achievement of inner whole­ ness? This question is rephrased in a series of varying metaphors throughout the poem. The first two sections of 313

the poem examine the concept of arrebato from opposite

points of view. At the end of the first part it is described

as a gigantic force within her which threatens to burst forth and sweep her away, a psychic happening which she anticipates with pleasure.

cPor que no me desborda tu ernpuje de oc^ano Y toda te reboso cual cauce a un fiero rio que sale de su madre, y bafia las orillas, se lleva las ralces, las aves y los vientos? CConde, 1967, 291).

This energy moves like a gigantic ocean swell or a river so flooded that it overflows its banks, tears up trees

by the roots and even carries off the birds and the winds. This is the impulse stirring within her, potentially destructive because it is contained. In opposition to it

she sees herself in a passive role. She is the river bed,

the channel through which the energy would stream, could it but be released and find its natural level.

In the second strophe the halves of the symbolic equation are reversed. Dios, instead of being a violent force inside her, is the form into which she must flow. Que si eres Td mi forma, si vas a ser mi sino, £Qu£ tiempo este que pierdo en no ser toda tuya? (Conde, 1967, 291).

If her unconscious is compelling her toward a form of wholeness, why does not the transformation occur at once? Then she compares her emotions to fruits that bend toward

God longing to be eaten, being thus incorporated into the essence of God through a sort of mystic digestion. Here we 314

find a basic metaphor for transformation. Neumann notes

that, "Transformation of the body cells through food intake is the most elementary of animal changes experienced by man" (.Origins, 31]. Aldrich further observes that the practice

of primitive cannibalism is concerned with something much

more subtle than the mere satisfaction of hunger.

There are two results to be accomplished: the qualities, such as strength and courage, that resided in the dead man or animal are to pass into the eater by assimilation; and the spirit of the dead man or animal is to be placated, made friendly, at one with the slayer and the slayer's group (Aldrich, 1970, 95). The poet then, once more assuming a passive attitude, would be eaten so as to be ingested into the form with which she seeks union.

The union sought, however, remains a distant thing, a reality unattained, a goal intuited but not realized. It will be the divine child born of psychic unity. "jAh lejos de los lejos, criatura que no veo!" (Conde, 1967, 291). While the goal remains unattained, the desire to achieve it

is unabated. "jDe cuSntas sacudidas me puebla desearte!"

She longs to know him. She wants to hear his violent voice and smell his "Sspero cuerpo de fuerza en arrebato" (Conde,

1967, 291). Aspero is an adjective which she applies to Dios in other poems, as in

Dios late de mis ojos, recostando su Verbo en esta voz tan Sspera ... (Conde, 1967, 265). 315

When she speaks of God's voice in the well, Aspero

denotes the unrefined energy of the creative principle. This is the force the poet longs to know intimately so that

it will embue her life with a sense of direction. "Poder saber que voy a un dla y hacia un tiempo" (Conde, 1967, 291). She wants to see that the desired union will be achieved and then, "Dormirme a Ti doblada, sentirte aqui en mi ofdo ..." (Conde, 1967, 291). The imagined encounter is followed by resolution and satisfaction, by sleep and intimate containment. She lies molded to her lover, feeling

his breath in her ear. But we must remember that this is an imagined encounter, a description of how things might be.

Instead she is nearly overcome by desire.

Que ya la sangre ahoga de tanto presentirte, de tanto imaginarte, de ir en busca tuya (Conde, 1967, 291).

She longs to be called "con una voz, la tuya, que

sea voz del cielo" (Conde, 1967, 291), and when that

.moment comes she will experience ecstatic rapture. She will glow with such joy and be so charged with energy herself that she will be, "Una brasa / que funda tu palabra hasta quedarse muerta" (Conde, 1967, 291). Whereas ecstasy is merely desired in "Arrebato," it is fully experienced in a poem from Mi fin en el viento

(1947). 316 "Extasis"

IArder, Arder! En fuego limpio de orillas con ceniza, Quemadura del niundo, sin que una raano Aventara un hilo de polvo oscuramente turbio. Arder en bianco pais de pureza, en domada Pasion de fuego clarisimo. Llamas en bandadas de lenguas Svidas de cosas Que se funden al sorberlas ... . S£; llamas de bocas frias Y ardientes, devastadoras. JArder, Arder, Arder, Oh mi tfnico Ardor! Nunca impura.

Eso ya fue. Pas6 de m£. Lo he vencido. Serenisima mi sangre, toda mla y sumisa; Mi cuerpo ya no es rito. Mi alma, de Dios. jOh mi alma Desligada de este pozo de mi cuerpo! Sin oleajes ni furias, sin aquellas Feroces embestidas a la muerte. Sigo fuego tuyo, vida; fuego tuyo y sacro Fuego del Sefior en hierbas finas y resecas, Desgarrando tejidos de la jugosa Materia que es el mundo que si arde. Limpia para mi, que es ser m&s tuya la criatura que voy siendo: redimida con toda mi pasi6n tallada a golpes que no acuiian, que resbalan: son de humo. jArderte a ti; ardernos, oh mi amor hallado dentro del gran fuego que es mi cuenco fr£o! CConde, 1967, 317).

The principal symbol which Carmen Conde uses to express her ecstatic experience is fire. With Eliade (1972,

335} we note that "'fire' and mystical 'heat' are always connected with access to a certain ecstatic state . . . ."

Carmen Conde's ecstatic fire is evidently a fire of purification. Numerous references to its purifying aspect appear in the first section of the poem. In the second line she refers to "fuego limpio." The adjective limpio 317 functions in a dual capacity. Not only does she speak of

"clean fire" but also of "fuego limpio de orillas con cenizas," that is, a fire which leaves no ash. The ash is considered a negative component of purifying fire, according to Bachelard (1968, 105), who comments "the ashes are often thought of as true excretions." This fire, then, is a fire so hot as to be wasteless. In line 4, the poet continues the metaphor of purity speaking of a "bianco pals de pureza." Finally, at the end of the strophe she refers to herself. iArder, arder, arder, oh mi ftnico ardor! Nunca impura CConde, 1967, 317).

The poem begins with an exclamation and proceeds to describe a huge fire, burning within the poet herself, which, from her perspective, makes it appear as though the whole world were on fire. quemadura del mundo, sin que una mano aventara un hilo de polvo oscuramente turbio CConde, 1967, 317).

It is so hot that no one need fan it to insure that it does not go out. Tongues of flame extend transforming whatever lies in their path, "cosas / que se funden ... ." The nature of reality is totally changed by the experience of the fire of ecstasy. These flames leap forth from "bocas frias / y ardientes,"—an image which suggests the funeral pyre. This fire is a rite of initiation. The initiate, the poet, is at once both dead and alive, as she 318

undergoes purification. Bachelard points out several reasons why fire is thought of as an agent of purification,

the most basic of which is the deodorizing action of fire.

Another is that "fire separates substances and destroys

material impurities. In other words, that which has gone through the ordeal of fire has gained in homogeneity and

hence in purity" (Bachelard, 1968, 103, 104). The separa­ tion of substances is apparently exactly what Carmen Conde

has in mind, for in the third section of the poem she says: jOh mi alma, desligada de este pozo de mi cuerpo! (Conde, 1967, 317). We are, then, to see two fires, one associated with the body and the other with the soul. The fire of the flesh is associated with passion, but it is not wildfire. She describes it as "domada / pasi6n de fuego clarlsimo" (Conde, 1967, 317). When it has burned itself out she says that she has conquered it.

Serenlsima mi sangre, toda m£a y sumisa; mi cuerpo ya no es rito. Mi alma, de Dios (Conde, 1967, 317).

But the fire has not been extinguished. Rather, it has been transformed, and she continues to burn.

Sigo, fuego tuyo, vida; fuego tuyo y sacro fuego del Senor en hierbas finas y resecas, desgarrando tejidos de la jugosa materia que es el mundo que si arde (Conde, 1967, 317). At this juncture we may note Jung's (1969, 36) observation that "The unquenchable fire ... is a well-known 319 attribute of the Deity . . . We are thus justified in seeing this continuing fire as an attribute of the god within.

As a consequence of the purification of fire the poet attains a new perspective. Her soul is not tormented by the fears and passions which are associated with the body.

Having known a symbolic death, death ceases to be a threat. Sin oleajes ni furias, sin aquellas feroces embestidas a la muerte CConde, 1967, 317).

The "sacro / fuego del Senor" of which Carmen Conde speaks in the third part of the poem can be interpreted as well as a source of inner light. Bachelard notes that the transformation of fire into light symbolizes a process of spiritualization.

According to Novalis, "light is the essence of the igneus phenomenon." Light is not only a symbol but an agent of purity. "There where light finds nothing to do, nothing to separate, nothing to unite, it continues on. That which can neither be separated nor united is simple, pure." In infinite space light then does nothing. It awaits the eye. It awaits the soul. It is then the basis for spiritual illumination (Bachelard, 1968, 107). Through purification Carmen Conde has known such spiritual illumination. In this respect her fire poem is closely related to the poems of "Amor" which chart the appearance of the inner light. Because of this illumination she finds herself 320 ... redimida con toda mi pasi6n tallada a golpes que no acufian, que resbalan: son de humo (Conde, 1967, 317).

We are at the forge of the metalworker. Her passion, like the heated metal, is hammered by the smith, but nothing is minted. The transformation which occurs is ineffable. The blows leave no impression. They are like smoke, the impurities burned away by the fire.

Carmen Conde ends her poem much as she began it, with a jubilant exclamation. jArderte a Ti; ardernos, oh mi amor hallado dentro del gran fuego que es mi cuenco frloJ (Conde, 1967, 317). She would ignite her love, that love found within the fire of her own brain, cuenco fr£o being a metaphor for skull. Through purification by fire she will be transformed with him. "Purification alone," comments Bachelard C1968, 101), "can permit us to examine dialectically the fidelity of a great love without destroying it."

"Extasis" has perhaps the best examples of oxymoron of any of the poems of Carmen Conde thus far studied. Life is opposed to death as in heat to cold. The poet speaks of mouths at once "frlas y ardientes." Her brain is cold and impassionate through association with the Calculating qualities of intelligence, yet it is aflame with a great fire, which is the agent of its transformation. 321 Apparently in every sphere of human search and experience the mystery of the ultimate nature of being breaks into oxymoronic paradox, and the best that can be said of it has to be taken simply as metaphor—whether as particles and waves or as Apollo and Dionysus, pleasure and pain (Campbell, 1973, 190). In "Extasis" the metaphor is that of heat vs. cold, life vs. death.

The ecstatic experience assumes quite a different configuration in a series of poems in which God is identi­ fied with the sea and rapture is achieved through immersion in the sea. We shall examine from. Mujer sin Eden (194 7) a poem entitled "Junto al mar."

No pastoreas t1i el mar. Ni yo lo aro. Al verlo despert6se en mi la angustia crey£ndolo gemelo de la tierra. IEl mar no acaba, el mar se crece y es mar que come cielo oscuro y tierra delicada de la orilla!

Meti§ndome yo en 61, ya no soy Eva. No pienso, no me muevo, me abandono ... FlotSndolo me entrego y se me entrega en un largo tomar que me desangra. La fuerza que contiene en su sustancia renace y muere en si. Es Dios el mar. jEs el mar Sspero, criatura de Dios eterna: su moradal Estaba hecho y sigue as£: el mar continuo. Tem£ al encontrlrmelo tendido que hubi^ramos de hendirlo con la reja, sac&ndole las flores de su espuma. jY entrSndole frenetica me coge sus ondas que no acaban, deshace mis cansancios; me adormece!

Su cuerpo funde el mio, lo levanta igual que a un fruto vorazmente agasajado. jMar, oh mar, que eres ardiente barro deshecho! 322

Tierras para ir no las quisiera. iDSjame en el mar, que me penetre siempre el mar! Mecida dulce o brutalmente; poseida o rechazada sin soltarme de sus brazos. I0h mar de Dios, mar desatinado y m!fo, mar que abrasas mi cuerpo avaricioso de tu cuerpo! (Conde, 1967, 404, 405).

It is worth pointing out that even in Mujer sin Edgn, the first woman, exiled from the garden, condemned to

bear children in pain and till the land with the man, over­ comes human suffering through ecstasy. The sea is to Eve a miracle, but we can readily comprehend her anxiety upon seeing it for the first time. She thought it, "gemelo de la tierra," an unending expanse of earth yet to be tilled. Instead, the sea is like a lover whose sweet embrace transports her out of herself healing the psychic wounds. As in "Ifach: Declamaci6n," the theme of continuity

is essential to the understanding of this poem. The

continuity of land, sea, and sky prefigures the perception

of the world as a unity which will come about as a conse­ quence of immersion in the sea. The essential oneness of

the four poetic elements, earth, air, water, and fire, is stressed in a number of metaphors. First, as we have already commented, the sea is seen as "gemelo de la tierra." The intimate relation of sea to earth and sky is emphasized in the following description of the sea. 323

IEl mar no acaba, el mar se crece y es mar que come cielo oscuro y tierra delicada de la orilla! (Conde, 1967, 404].

The sea is infinite, unending. It has a tendency to devour and take into itself both earth and sky. It eats, that is blends with, the night sky and it devours the deli­ cate land of the shores. How it relates to the fourth element, fire, will be commented on later. Other metaphors, as well, refer to the all-encompassing nature of the sea. Eve comments:

Teml al encontr&rmelo tendido • que hubiSramos de hendirlo con la reja, saccindole las flores de su espuma (Conde, 1967, 404). Eve's confession attributes to the sea the fruit- and-flower-producing capacity of the land. Finally, the poet refers to the sea as "ardiente barro deshecho." For the purposes of this poem, then, earth, sea and sky form a continuum.

The entrance of Eve into the sea marks the beginning of the ecstatic experience. Metiendome yo en Si, ya no soy Eva. No pienso, no me muevo,me abandono ... FlotSndolo me entrego y se me entrega en un largo toraar que me desangra (Conde, 1967, 404). Immersion in the sea means that Eve loses her identity as the first woman. It means as well that she relinquishes the intellectual thought processes associated with the dominance of the ego, "No pienso." She floats in 324 the sea assuming Deikman's receptive mode and the posture

of the entrega which, as we have seen, Carmen Conde associ­ ates with the spiritual orientation of the mystics. A new sort of interaction takes place which will lead, for her, to

direct cognition of the unity of the universe. "... me entrego y se me entrega / en un largo tomar que me desangra"

CConde, 1967, 404). This process is described as one which bleeds her. The effect will be to leave her weak, on the verge of fainting or losing consciousness. She is, in other words, at the point of going out of herself, entering into a new sort of consciousness. The process is neither dis­ agreeable nor frightening. The sea is envisioned as a lover. me coge con sus ondas que no acaban, deshace mis cansancios; me adormece! (Conde, 1967, 404).

In a word, immersion in the sea has a healing effect. It releases her from fatigue and induces gentle sleep. Here we note Jung's (1969, 162) observation that "Manifestations of a psychic activity not caused or consciously willed by man himself have always been felt to be daemonic, divine, or 'holy,' in the sense that they heal and make whole." Conse­ quently, the sea assumes for Eve a miraculous character. Finally, we find the interaction mentioned above referred to as fusion.

Su cuerpo funde el mio, lo levanta igual que a un fruto vorazmente agasajado CConde, 1S67, 4 04), 325

Fusion is the hallmark of the ecstatic experience. The divisions imposed on the world by Logos are melted down

revealing the ground of reality. In the words of Underhill (1961, 7}, ecstasy is "a rare moment of consciousness in which the senses are fused into a single and ineffable act

of perception." In this state the body of the poet is

lifted on high by the sea to be admired like a tempting fruit just before it is eaten. Let us now examine some additional characteristics

of the sea in which Carmen Conde immerses herself. We have

already seen that it is infinite and that it subsumes in its nature the qualities of earth and air. It contains, as well, a vital creative force. La fuerza que contiene en su sustancia renace y muere en si. Es Dios el mar. jEs el mar cispero, criatura de Dios eterna: Su morada! (Conde, 1967, 404). Not only does this description portray exactly the motion of the waves which rise and fall back upon them-^ selves, but also it presents us with a paradigm of creation.

In this respect the sea is often regarded as a feminine rather than as a masculine symbol. "The waters of the oceans are . . . seen not only as the source of life but also as its goal. 'To return to the sea' is 'to return to the mother,' that is to die" (Cirlot, 1962, s.v. "sea"). We must recall, however, that we are dealing with a woman poet for whom the characteristics of the unconscious may be 326

masculine and the sea is the symbol par excellence of the

unconscious. The sea, then, as symbolic of God, is seen as

the very essence of creation. It gives life and takes it back into itself just as the unconscious surrounding the ego can give creative inspiration and take back into itself

what is forgotten or repressed. Jung (1969, 81) has pointed out that "That psychological fact which wields the greatest power in your system functions as a god, since it is always the overwhelming psychic factor that is called 'god.'" For a poet, the relation to the creative unconscious is of

paramount importance. Thus it is not difficult to under­ stand how God, identified in this poem with the sea, comes to represent the powers of the unconscious.

In ecstatic rapture, Carmen Conde is in continuous contact with these forces which are vital to her, and that is where she would like to stay. jOh mar de Dios, mar desatinado y mlo, mar que abrasas mi cuerpo avaricioso de tu cuerpo! (Conde, 1967, 405).

In these lines we find the expected oxymoron which points to that other reality beyond empirical reality. It is the sea, water containing its own opposite, fire, which ignites her body, which sets it aflame with desire. In ecstasy she experiences another way of knowing and in ecstasy she is healed because she is no longer Eve. ". . . the tragedy of Christianity," Watts (1968, 84) 327 believes, "is the confusion of its myth with history and fact." This confusion has devastating consequences for the psychology of the feminine. The function of the feminine, Eve's relation to the serpent in the garden and to the instinctual side of human nature, is associated with evil when lifted from its natural mythological context by theology, thus bestowing upon woman the burden of sin. Watts (1968, 83) concludes, "A truly problematic evil arises in human life when the necessary dark side of existence is not accepted and 'loved' along with the light." In "Junto al mar," as Eve enters the sea, she ceases to be Eve, the cause of man's fall. She is simply woman joined to the masculine sea in ecstatic rapture. She is whole. The last poem we shall consider deals less with the experience of ecstasy per se. Rather, it shows how the healing of the psyche which occurs during ecstatic rapture can altogether alter the poet's view of life, providing her with a new understanding of the suffering that humanity must endure. Bucke comments that a man becomes enlightened when, as a consequence of a new birth or initiation, he rises to a higher spiritual plane. The passage to this higher spiritual plane is demonstrated by the appearance of a subjective light (Bucke, 1969, 11). In "Amante" we shall discover the symbol of the subjective light shining brightly within the poet herself. No longer a night star, nor the resplendent rays of dawn, nor even a cerebral blaze 328 in her head, it is now a light shining in her womb, "donde nacen los hijos" CConde, 1967, 444), within the center of her feminine self.

"Amante" Es igual que relr dentro de una campana: sin el aire, ni olrte, sin saber a que hueles. Con gestos vas gastando la noche de tu cuerpo, y yo te transparento; soy tCi para la vida.

5 No se acaban tus ojos; son los otros los ciegos. No te juntan a m£; nadie sabe que es tuya esta mortal ausencia que se duerme en mi boca cuando clama la voz en desiertos de llanto. Brotan tiernos laureles en las frentes ajenas, 10 y el amor se consuela prodigando su alma. Todo es luz y desmayo donde nacen los hijos, y la tierra es. de flor, y en la flor hay un cielo.

Solamente tla y yo (una mujer al fondo de este cristal sin brillo que es campana caliente) 15 vamos considerando que la vida ..., la vida puede ser el amor, cuando el amor embriaga; es sin duda sufrir, cuando se estS dichosa; es, segura, la luz, porque tenemos ojos.

Pero irelrf cantar, estremecernos libres 20 de desear y ser mucho mUs que la vida? .. . No. Ya lo sS. Todo es algo que supe y por ello, por ti, permanezco en el mundo CConde, 19 67, 444).

"Amante" describes the lover, her partner, the god within, and also herself, the lover of life, she who has learned through the experience of expanded consciousness to comprehend life's apparent contradictions. Loving him, is like laughing inside a bell. Referring back to the poem

"Lluvia en mayo," we recall that the bell functions as a symbol for the womb "S6lo mi tronco / aloja por frutal una campana" CConde, 1967, 295). Within this bell, the body 329

of the poet, we find the nascent form of the god within.'

Thus, loving him is like laughing inside a bell. There is no air, nor can he be heard, nor can she know how he would smell. But he moves about like the fetus, symbol of the emerging self, the totality of the psyche. Con gestos vas gastando la noche de tu cuerpo, y yo te trasparento: Soy ttf para la vida CConde, 1967, 444).

The night of his body is that period before birth, when he moves obscurely within her, and she reveals him. Their identity is one and so she is the transparent body which contains him. Here we must think of another sort of bell, the campana de cristal or bell jar, used to protect something delicate or precious. The eyes of the loved one are infinite and all- seeing. By comparison other people are blind. The eyes of the loved one are also her eyes. In "Identificacion" she says:

Mis ojos no te buscan sobre la tierra inmensa: eres tti mis ojos dilat&ndose. Mis ojos te contienen; si lloras t£i por ellos soy yo que te libero de m£ para que llores CConde, 1967, 290). It is abundantly clear from this passage that the eyes in question, while belonging to both lover and the one loved,pertain only to one body. The poem concludes: La trama del latir en cuerpo que no es tuyo ni mlo solamente: un cuerpo de dos seres que funden la unidad de dos que ya son uno CConde, 1967, 290), 330

Effectively, we are dealing with one body inhabited by two beings, one psyche whose different parts are complementary and capable of fusion.

In Enajenado mirar (1962-1964), the intent of which the poet tells us is, "autobiografiarme por la mirada"

CConde, letter of July 31, 1974) the same identification with the god within through the shared use of one set of eyes occurs in the first poem entitled "Prologo."

jAbiertos a la par en ti y en ml, mirSndolo con amor, con gozo, inauguramos la eternidad viendola juntos, con los mis ojos! (Conde, 1967, 859). In this poem, as in "Amante," the eyes which Carmen

Conde mentions are the eyes of the loved one, but they are also her eyes. The emerging Self, being a psychic entity, perceives the world through the eyes of its container, the poet. Because of this enigmatic unity of the two amantes, the poet and the self, other people do not perceive their relationship. They are the blind, who are hindered by limited vision while the eyes of her lover are infinite, "no se acaban." To the blind, her ecstatic amorous rela­ tionship is not apparent.

No te juntan a mf; nadie sabe que es tuya esta mortal ausencia que se duerme en mi boca cuando llama la voz en desiertos de llanto (Conde, 1967, 444). T"he voice in the desert is the voice of Hagar crying out to Jehovah and weeping lest her son, Ishmael, 331 perish from thirst in the desert of Bersabee (Genesis 21: 14-17). Like the biblical Hagar, Carmen Conde is also concerned with the welfare of the child, the Self, but it is she who suffers thirst if he is absent, which is to say if she is not in communication with the god within. Carmen Conde infers that the absence of her love is mortal, causing death, but the death would be hers were she to lose contact with the Self growing within her. Because the absence comes about not through physical separation but rather through an inability to communicate adequately with the symbols arising from the unconscious and constellating the birth of the

Self, the absence is described as though it were a presence, merely sleeping in her mouth. Now the mouth is that part of the body which registers the sensation of thirst. The thirst which Carmen Conde feels is spiritual, a thirst for the god within when she cannot reach him. Yet the absence caused by his sleeping is a consequence of the weeping in the desert. No one will reach the god within by crying out in the desert as Hagar did. He must be reached through introspection, communion with oneself. His paradoxically absent presence is a secret which only she understands. The time is propitious for great psychic happenings. Brotan tiernos laureles en las frentes ajenas, y el amor se consuela prodigando su alma. Todo es luz y desmayo donde nacen los hijos, y la tierra es de flor, y en la flor hay un cielo (Conde, 1967, 444),. 332

From the minds of others bloom tender shoots of

laurel, the expectation of greater understanding. In antiquity from the leaves of the laurel, the tree of

Apollo, were woven crowns of victory for artists, poets and even military heroes. Here, however, we are not concerned

with the act of crowning, recognition for some feat of

glory, but rather with the emergence of tender new ideas. The whole strophe has about it the feeling of springtime

exuberance associated with the growth of new vegetation and

the birth of a variety of forms of new life. Thus the poet comments, "y el amor se consuela prodigando su alma" CConde, 1967, 444). Prodigar must be read here not in the sense of "to squander" but rather, "dar con profusion y

abundancia" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v.

"prodigar"). Love, not properly understood by the gente ciega, is consoled by giving generously of itself in this moment of cosmic importance. The marvelous is, in fact, the birth of the Self, "Todo es luz y desmayo donde nacen los

hijos" CConde, 1967, 444), the poet tells us. In the womb there is a great light, that light we have seen associated with the god within. Of the location of this spiritual light which Carmen Conde has appropriately placed in the womb, the center of the feminine being, Harding (1973, 282) makes the following observations: It is customary among us to think of matter and spirit as antithetical. Spirit or conscious­ ness is considered to be entirely separate from 333 matter: the two are thought of as complements, as opposites, eternally at war. But the mystery teachings of many religions and philosophies state that it is in matter that spirit is to be found. According to alchemistic teaching, it is the lumen naturae hidden within the stone, or the image of the sun buried in the centre of the earth. Therefore the philosopher's gold, which is the sun's reflection, namely, the light of conscious­ ness, is to be found inside the earth's substance. The earth is taken to correspond to the body; therefore the teaching is that the spirit, the light, actually inheres in the body. It is significant that Carmen Conde postulates the light as residing within herself.

The light in the womb must also be seen in relation to the Spanish idiom dar a luz, to give birth, for the general sense of the poem is about a special birth. Light, however, is not the only symbolic element in the womb. The poet refers to "luz y desmayo." Here we find the oxymoron which points to that other level of consciousness, associ­ ated with the birth of the Self. Desmayo refers on the one hand to desaliento or depression, generally associated with a darkness of mood, the opposite of light. Desmayo also refers to, "desfallecimiento de las fuerzas, privacion de sentido" (Diccionario de la lengua espanola, 1970, s.v. "desmayo"), a condition which the woman may experience both during the act of giving birth and the experience of ecstasy. When the birth is one joyously awaited, the pains of labor and loss of consciousness may even be seen as a form of ecstasy. 334

The birth of the Self is anticipated by a joyous flowering of the natural surroundings, much as though the event were to be considered a miracle. "... la tierra es de flor, y en la flor hay un cielo" (Conde, 1967, 444). In the flower with a sky in its center we find the familiar symbol of the mandala which presages the achievement of psychic integration. The flower, of course, is a circular form which emphasizes the center, a sky, the blue symbol of spirituality. Commenting on the characteristics of the modern mandala Jung C1969, 80) remarks: I have seen many hundreds of mandalas done by patients who are quite uninfluenced, and I have found the same fact in an overwhelming majority of cases: there was never a deity occupying the centre. The centre, as a rule, is emphasized. But what we find there is a symbol with a very different meaning. It is a star, a sun, a flower, a cross with equal arms, a precious stone, a bowl filled with water or wine, a serpent coiled up, or a human being, but never a god. Jung's C1969, 82} investigations lead him to con­ clude that the place in the center of the mandala, formerly occupied by the deity, has now been taken by the wholeness of man. In "Amante" the appearance of the flower with a sky in its center coincides with the birth of the Self, the psychic integration which results in the whole and unified person. It is the birth of the Self which gives to the poet a new form of vision necessary to understand the contradic­ tions of life. She no longer says to her love, "yo te 33-5 trasparento." Rather he is a separately constituted entity.

Solamente tH y yo (una mujer al fondo de este cristal sin brillo que es campana caliente) vamos considerando que la vida ... (Conde, 1967, 444).

Now she describes herself as a "cristal sin brillo." The god within, her love, no longer resides in the womb where her form reveals his incipient birth. Now he is a full-blown psychic entity and together they ponder the paradoxes of life. Because of her new consciousness she can comprehend that life may be "el amor, cuando el amor embriaga," love when it leads to ecstasy. But it can also be suffering when one is happy, a situation which now has meaning for her. Finally Life must be light, "porque tenemos ojos." Light is meaningful in relation to the manner in which it is perceived and when understood as she has understood the Light inside herself, it illuminates giving spiritual understanding. In relation to these lines we must consider Jung's comments on the apparent ills which befall the ego in the process of individuation. The goal of psychological, as of biological, development is self-realization or individuation. , . . And because individuation is an heroic and often tragic task, the most difficult of all, it involves suffering, a passion of the ego: the ordinary, empirical man we once were is burdened with the fate of losing himself in a greater dimension and being robbed of his fancied freedom of will. He suffers, so to speak, from the violence done to him by the self (Jung, 1969, 157). 336

With the birth of the Self, the suffering endured becomes meaningful and the contradictions of life are resolved, even though through demands for autonomy the ego may reassert itself. Thus Carmen Conde closes her poem on a philosophical note. She has learned that humanity will never be free from desire and from trying to be more than life.

No. Ya lo s6. Todo es algo que supe y por ello, por ti, permanezco en el mundo (Conde, 1967, 444).

On account of what she has learned in the course of individuation and on account of her love, amante, the god within, she understands that her purpose is to stay in this world. Here a parallel can be seen with the Bodhisattva, the compassionate Buddhist who "put off his Nirvana, which meant a total break with this world, in order to assist his fellow-men" CZaehner, 1974, 123). Comments Jung (1969, 157), "Through the Christ-symbol, man can get to know the real meaning of his suffering: he is on the way towards realizing his wholeness." For Carmen Conde the Christ-symbol is the emerging Self, her amante.

Since the poet regards the workings of the psychic forces within as something divine, we find throughout the poetry of Carmen Conde the constellation of a psychic presence or numen. The discovery of this presence, symbolized by the inner light, is the unifying theme of the six poems from "Amor" explicated in this study. In 337 later poems this divine entity does not disappear. In

"Arrebato" the poet explicitly states her desire for union with the god within. In "Extasis" the inner divinity assumes the aspect of fire which transforms her through purification. In "Junto al mar" the god within becomes the sea of.the unconscious in which Eve loses the burden of original sin. Finally, in "Amante" we find a great inner light which presages the birth of the Self, the psychic child of the poet's union with the god within, her amante. In each case the encounter with the god within leads to an experience of ecstasy in which the poet is freed from the bonds of logical thought and the restrictions of the empirical world. In each case the direct experience of the original unity serves to resolve the psychic conflicts imposed by logical thought and social convention. Thus we can truly speak of ecstasy as a technique of healing in the poetry of Carmen Conde and postulate as consistently operative in her work an archetype of ecstasy.

1 CHAPTER 10

CONCLUSION

We began this study with an inquiry into what it means to be both a woman and a poet. Our approach was first to analyze the poetic world created by Carmen Conde in order to identify the principal symbols and archetypes responsible for the unique character of that world, and, secondly to examine those poems in which the poet deals specifically with the problem of self-definition. The poetic world of Carmen Conde draws its major symbols from nature. It is a world vibrant with the archetypal numen of vegetation. The natural processes of the plant kingdom become symbolic configurations which reflect the range of human experience. In the proliferation of vegetation functions the archetype of the Eternal Feminine, each plant grows rooted in the Great Earth Mother. In this context it is not surprising to find that the tree is a symbol frequently employed by the poet to describe herself, as in "Autobiografla," and "Sino." Carmen

Conde has created a poetic world which reflects the mysteries of the transformation woman experiences in herself,

338 339 A second symbol closely related to the process of self-definition is water, for Carmen Conde, the "charmed image." Water, the basic substance of life, is a passive element containing in its flow the creative aspects of the feminine archetype. Water assumes many forms in the poetry of Carmen Conde. It must be seen first of all as a function of the feminine earth. In rivers it represents the circu­ latory system of the earth nourishing the growing things which the land supports. As rain it has a similar fertilizing function. In lakes and pools it embodies the qualities of relatedness implicit in Eros for it unites • earth and sky in its reflecting surface. In the wellspring and the fountain, water represents the source of life and a spiritual center.

In the poetic world of Carmen Conde we find two main symbolic configurations: the plant kingdom in all its varied manifestations and water in a diversity of forms. Both complexes of symbols function as adjuncts of the archetype of the Eternal Feminine.

In "La poesla de la mujer poeta," Carmen Conde states in prose what her poems say with much greater impact in symbolic language. It is the special task of the woman poet to express in art what is uniquely hers. "La mujer poeta (me trae sin cuidado que sea llamada poetisa) puede aportar mundos desconocidos; en lugar de aumentar banalmente el acervo po§tico general, debe ofrecer lo que ella estcL 340 obligada a dar: lo que sabe a fondo, como mujer" (Conde, 1947, 110). If instead she attempts merely to imitate what men have written, her poetry will have about it a hollow quality, the false ring of insincerity. The woman poet has a special message and it is inextricably bound up with the condition of her femininity. "... lo fundamental del asunto," she continues, is woman's creation of poetry,

"desde sus esencias femeninas, desde sus entranas" (Conde,

1947, 113). To clarify what she means by feminine essence, she adds, "Sea o no sea madre efectiva, la mujer sabe de la maternidad ..." (Conde, 1947, 114). Thus, in prose, Carmen Conde specifies the exact nature of the unique contribution which woman can make to poetry, confirming our conclusion that it is the archetype of the Eternal Feminine upon which is raised the structure of the poetic world. Closely related to the matter of self-definition is the manner in which one perceives fate. Carmen Conde's beliefs about fate are remarkably similar to those of C. G. Jung. For Carmen Conde fate resides in the human soul.

Jung places it in the unconscious, specifically, in the working of the archetypes. We have seen Eros, the feminine principle, described as a principle of relatedness. Thus, in the Sino poems we find fate defined as relationship. It is the masculine principle which causes the feminine to be realized and vice versa. 341

In Mi libro de El Escorial Carmen Conde explains in more detail her theory of fate. To understand it one must possess experience of life, intuition and deep thought, the qualities which we associate with Eros rather than Logos.

Fate, or in Jung's terms the unconscious, will not reveal its secrets to the mind which would understand it intel­ lectually. Fate has its own organic logic which can best be compared to the natural development' of the plant. Each human is guided by an unconscious directive center which comprehends spiritual as well as biological development. For Carmen Conde it is this unconscious force in man which, with his collaboration, brings about his destiny, the life he lives. Campbell (1973, 139) has preferred in place of the word destiny, the term wyrd because it has "the sense of an inward potentiality in the process of becoming . . . ."

The artist in contact with his inner life is the modern mythogenetic zone. Carmen Conde, like Jung, sees fate as a living force directing man from within and, like Campbell, she understands destiny as the creative life man forges for himself at the behest of the unconscious. The life which Carmen Conde forges for herself is dedicated to the art of poetry. Consequently we find a number of poems about the poetic process. Carmen Conde concerns herself first with content. "Lo fundamental de toda Poesia es tener qu§ decir; despugs saberlo decir"

CConde, 1947, 111L. The poem itself is often formed from 342 the hypnagogic imagery of the unconscious. The relationship of the poet to the creative unconscious is crucial. The poet receives messages from a voice which speaks to her in dreams and from the Archangel, the animus figure or personification of the unconscious contents. The world of poetry is her sostenido ensueno one of those magic universes whose essence should not be confused with profane reality.

El poeta ha de conocerse, poseer su alma, darla a los otros. Cada uno d§ la suya y aprenderemos universos m^gicos. La indagaci6n po^tica no concluye; si excluye lo superficial, lo sin categoria: el oro puro aflora y se manifiesta la creaci6n con todo lucimiento (Conde, 1947, 111).

Just before sleeping and just before waking un­ conscious contents more easily pass into consciousness.

Both moments have been described as important to the poetic process. Another fact of creation is naming, although Carmen Conde recognizes that the giving of a name also sets a limitation. Since the creative process devolves upon a reciprocal relationship between the conscious mind and the creative unconscious, the poetic vocation becomes for the poet identical with individuation. The search for the poetic image in response to the creative necessities of the archetypal feminine involves the poet in the process of spiritual transformation.

The second part of this study explores how Carmen Conde defines the feminine principle in relation to the masculine. In dealing with this material we found it 343 necessary to undertake a theoretical discussion of how these two psychological principles function. Woman, it

became apparent, has a twofold task: attaining a right rela­ tion to the feminine principle within her and developing the unconscious "masculine" attributes of her personality. The end result of this task is the harmonious integration of the masculine and feminine principles, the birth of the Self.

In her poetry Carmen Conde provides us on the one hand with a penetrating analysis of western woman's cultural situation and, on the other, with a subjective account of the experi­ ence of spiritual transformation from the feminine point of view.

The major areas of stress which a woman experiences are bound up with her relationship to the masculine principle. Western woman lives in a world traditionally dominated by the male which will discourage her attempts at self-realization. Mujer sin Eden examines the mythical origins of this point of view. In Genesis the role of the feminine is devalued. Because of her association with

Original Sin woman is considered a source of evil. Carmen Conde reinterprets the tale of the fall from a feminine point of view. In Mujer sin Ed^n there is one protagonist: woman, who assumes different identities: Eve, Mary, Carmen

Conde herself. This epic approach stresses what is common to all women, the sense of guilt and inferiority which must be overcome in individuation. Through the archetypal 344 treatment of her subject matter, Carmen Conde lets us know that we are dealing with a spiritual problem facing all women.

Woman's task is to achieve a right relation to the feminine principle within her and to develop the logos side of her personality. The devaluation of the feminine makes it more difficult for her to accomplish both, Mujer sin Eden presents the Eden story as the myth of the birth of consciousness, an act which Eve perpetrates by disobeying

God and listening to her own instinctual side, the serpent.

Symbolically what woman must do to achieve psychic wholeness is to develop consciousness, her logos qualities. In other words, woman senses what she must do to achieve psychic wholeness but finds herself continually at odds with cultural values. Her route to wholeness is not identical to the man's.

There are really only two characters in Mujer sin Eden, woman and Jehovah, implacable and unpardoning. The poem is an extended dialogue between them. Woman does not understand why she is punished. In wanting to create she has dared to be godlike. In Genesis creation has become a prerogative of Logos. For her appropriation of what is considered a masculine right, woman must bear children in pain. For modern woman bearing children means perpetrating the horrors of war and war is the great mutilation of maternal instinct. Throughout Mujer sin Ed^n speaks the 345 frustrated voice of the Eternal Feminine which cries for adequate recognition of its creative role.

The consequences of the devaluation of the feminine are also apparent in "Entrana," which postulates the problem of Eros split off from Logos. In the modern woman instinct and intelligence often do not understand each other because they speak separate languages. Woman is seen as having to choose between two apples. The apple of Sleeping Beauty will keep her a child. Should she eat of the 6ther apple of the tree of knowledge like her mythic ancestress, she will be punished, because in the Western world the feminine principle has been excluded. She will become painfully aware of the prejudice which would keep her incomplete. The last section of this study postulates an arche­ type of ecstasy in the poetry of Carmen Conde. Ecstasy is the means by which the poet recovers from the psychic split evidenced in Mujer sin Edgn. fecstasy is the ineffable per­ ception of the unity of life. While the theme of ecstasy appears in many contexts throughout the poetry of Carmen Conde, it is here studied in conjunction with three major symbolical configurations: the world axis, the vessel, and the inner light. The Peri6n de Ifach represents for Carmen Conde a cosmic mountain or world axis which is an avenue of communication between the three mythic zones of Hell, Earth, and Heaven. In "Ifach: Declamaci6n," Carmen Conde is 346 concerned with passage to higher consciousness. She wants, like the shaman, to ascend the rock to the realm of the ineffable. In the poem all nature is perceived as a continuity preparing us for the ecstatic experience of empirical reality as a unified field. Ascending the mountain permits the poet to experience eternity, the Eternal Now. The dominant motif of Mlo is the ecstasy which follows the attaining of inner peace. For Carmen Conde the Escorial serves as an aid to contemplation just as the mandala does for the yogin. Her journey to San Lorenzo de El Escorial is the equivalent of a journey to the center of the soul. There she becomes acquainted with the world of non-ego. The Escorial, like the alchemist's retort, is the vessel in which her passion is transformed. Through participation mystique she experiences with it the hieros gamos, which represents the marriage of the masculine and feminine principles of the psyche, the goal of individuation. Ecstasy is also associated with the discovery of the god within, a personification of the psychic activity within which human consciousness worships as divine. Universally that divinity manifests itself as an inner light, the spirit in matter. The poems of "Amor" record the discovery of the god within. Each poem represents a new stage in awareness. Progress is marked by passage from darkest night to dawn, the first manifestation of the light. Later poems represent 347 a form of intimate dialogue with the god within. In each case ecstasy is experienced. Finally, in "Amante," the poet places the light within herself. Through the integra­ tion of the masculine and feminine principles the Self is conceived. With the birth of the Self, heralded by the appearance of the divine light, suffering becomes meaningful.

Ecstasy provides a new form of perception that shows the customary duality of Western thought to be illusory. It has a healing effect since the poet experiences liberation from that duality. Ecstasy gives woman a core of confidence' in her own powers, in her essentially feminine nature. Through ecstasy she feels complete within herself and strengthened to assert her rightful place in a culture which traditionally has excluded her, telling her that she must imitate what man has done, and generally devalued the feminine contribution. The direct experience of the original unity transcends the conflicts which arise when the natural drive toward psychic wholeness is impeded by the cultural and social conventions of an historical era. Ecstasy is thus the most important archetype in Carmen Conde's work for it is the means by which she liberates herself from any cultural prejudice that would hold her back and finds the inner strength to follow her own course, being true to herself as a woman and as a poet. REFERENCES

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