The Magical Reality (Translated)

By Roger De Lafforest and David De Angelis

It is not the possession of the formula that creates the sorcerer, it is the living sorcerer who makes even a pun thaumaturgical. 
Count HERMANN VON KEYSERLING.

"Almost all my fellow researchers advised me to keep silent, while all the laymen of those so-called 'occult' sciences encouraged me to speak.
If I had had to reveal only obscure recipes of the kind to be found in magic books, or secrets already revealed such as those generally published by magazines in their witchcraft columns, of picturesque, or less invented, reports on the manifestations more than invisible forces, I would not have hesitated.
My purpose was altogether different, in that I had the intention of making public, of revealing the new techniques capable of enabling anyone to gain access to the marvelous powers, of reproducing in the laboratory, and with far more sure efficacy, all the works that soothsayers boast of accomplishing with or without the help of the devil."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stargatebook
• Release date: Jan 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9791223001202

Book preview

Chapter One - Initiation to Initiation

It is not the possession of the formula that creates the sorcerer; it is the living sorcerer who makes even a pun thaumaturgical.

Count HERMANN VON KEYSERLING.

Almost all my fellow researchers advised me to keep quiet, while all the laymen in those so-called 'occult' sciences encouraged me to speak up.

If I had had to reveal only obscure recipes of the kind to be found in magic books, or secrets already revealed such as those generally published by magazines in their witchcraft columns. ria, picturesque ti, or less invented, about the manifestations more reports of invisible forces, I would not have hesitated.

My purpose was altogether different, in that I intended to make public, to reveal the new techniques that could enable anyone to gain access to the wondrous powers, to reproduce in the laboratory, and with far more assured effectiveness, all the works that soothsayers boast of accomplishing with or without the devil's help.

At this point the undertaking became very risky, a real case of conscience. This was somewhat of the same concern that drives the Great Powers to make the small ones sign a treaty that, in modern diplomatic parlance, is called nonproliferation of atomic weapons. There was a time when it was common knowledge that children should not be allowed to fiddle with matches or door locks: the secrets of sorcerers were indecipherable, those relating to the manufacture of the atomic bomb unattainable. In the shadow of this terror, sheltered from the lightning strikes whose mode of use only a few suspects knew, one could sleep peacefully: it was enough not to provoke those powerful ones and to pay them, discreetly, their due fees. From one day to the next, it was found that making an atomic bomb was within the reach of the tiniest industrial states, and that magic was reduced to a phenomenon of remote influence that anyone was capable of provoking.

This meant that nothing now could prevent an emirate in the Persian Gulf from enjoying opening an atomic factory next to its oil wells and that Mr. Rossi could proceed, in the sink of his kitchenette, to experiment with magic and with greater success than a professional sorcerer. Under such conditions I wondered if I had the right, by writing this book, to contribute to the magical education of the general public.

I therefore feel it is my duty to explain to the reader, through two anecdotes that I will narrate by way of example, the reason and motive why, after categorically refusing to do so, I was induced to answer in the affirmative and publish this book.

The revenge of the insomniac

A friend had complained to me about suffering from insomnia, and I had the imprudence to tell her that today there is a technique by which it is possible to sleep at will, in the simplest of ways.

He will advise me to count sheep replied or resort to one of those hypnogenic drugs, which I do every day after all, that end up reducing an individual to a state of slavery and ruining his health.

I then briefly explained to her how today it is possible, thanks to the implementation of a radionic expansion field, to transmit at a distance, to a person who is affected by them, the effects of a drug, a medicine, any product, even a symbol or a simple written injunction. The obvious advantage of this procedure is that one comes to sleep without having previously ingested the poison that causes it.

My friend, excited by such a solution, exclaimed:

If it's that simple, I'm counting on you to let me sleep regularly. We'll start tonight!

When I explained to her that it would be impossible for me to transform myself into a nurse every day and at fixed hours in order to put the radionic scheme assembled especially for her into operation, she begged me to hand over the scheme itself, which she would use following the procedures I had indicated.

The importance of the secret seemed relative so he handed her a diagram, specifying the point and the way to properly place her photograph in it along with a fragment of the medicine she habitually ingested. The lady returned home excited and proud of her first 'magical' initiation.

What do you think took place? You will easily guess: an a buso of power, or at least a vague desire to use for the purpose of harm the means that had been granted solely to heal an ailment.

In fact, the next morning that gracious insomniac thanked me by phone, informing me that the radionic action had produced the desired effect.

All the better! It is always a source of consolation to see that it is possible to alleviate the troubles of one's neighbor so easily. But behold, that excellent person, so sweet and amiable, of unsuspected morality, whose soul seemed transparent, untroubled by any shadow of malevolence, carried away by her neophyte enthusiasm spontaneously let slip one of those confidences that have the power to electrocute the one who collects them:

His remedy is fantastic! - he said to me. Now that I know how to use it, I won't just use it as a cure. You know my friend, Mrs. G--. She is a terrible woman, as bad as the plague and as poisonous as a scorpion. She has already hurt me without my being able to defend myself. I am in possession of a photograph of her, I will place it in the diagram she gave me and put in it a good dose of rat poison, which I will now go and buy at the grocery store.

Rousseau's theories are not my forte; I do not believe in the congenital goodness of man, and, dare I say it, even less in that of woman, but I willingly lull myself into the illusion that human nature can be corrected and diroded to the point of becoming almost perfect, thanks to education, honor and the fear of God. Now that young woman belied my ideas with a completely immoral spontaneity, manifesting her intention to make use for her own revenge of the minimum amount of power she had acquired.

For me, the practical consequence to be drawn from the fact now consisted in the obligation to maintain the utmost secrecy about all recipes of magical efficacy, not to divulge the slightest rudiment of those new knowledge that now make it possible, using the methods and techniques of experimental science, to reproduce most of the miracles that are attributed to the power of sorcerers.

My decision was reinforced by some other incidents of the same kind that happened to me. For several years, both verbally and in writing, when it came to the so-called occult sciences I confined myself to considerations of a reassuring conformity: I never said a single word about the laboratory researches (and discoveries) that occupied most of the time of some people unknown to the public and proceeding silently on the path of knowledge.

What made me change my mind deserves to be told, because the story is a pleasant one. If I may so express myself, I will say that the mis way of Damascus is a urinary way. But listen.

The master's touch

One evening in the countryside, during a meeting among neighbors, the conversation fell on the witchcraft practices just reported in a newspaper chronicle.

Whenever such a topic is broached, the audience always divides into two factions: there are those who believe in it and those who do not, the simpletons and the strong spirits. When it came my turn to express an opinion, I stated that in order to recognize the reality and effectiveness of the magical art, it was not necessary to resort to the supernatural. As with cooking, these are recipes that involve de subtle dosages of ingredients, a style and a ritual: the sorcerer is a meticulous, rigorous cook. For the dish to turn out tasty, for the work to succeed, rules and proportions must be adhered to in the most precise way. The degree of success then depends on the talent of the cook.

I was invited to give examples and, rendered confident by the co-communicative warmth of repeated sips of orzata syrup, I had the imprudence to give a recipe, the simplest the wackiest I could think of, and explained:

If you wish to play a bad joke on a friend, you can amuse yourself by having him pee in bed for several nights in a row. The procedure is easy: at the place where he usually releases his bladder, at the foot of a tree or a wall, take some of the soil impregnated with his urine and seal it in a gauze bag, which, with the help of a string, you will suspend in the current of a small stream. Until the soil has completely dissolved in the flowing water, your victim will pee the bed every night, much to her embarrassment and confusion. The nocturnal incontinence caused in this guinea pig is by no means dangerous, it is only a magic prank, (puerile, if not honest), a prank of dubious taste, capable, however, of demonstrating to you, by amusing you, the power of sorcerers All present burst out laughing and the sorcerer apprentices agreed to proceed with the prank on a peasant whose urinary habits they knew, a recently married man; which

Of course, it increased the spicy side of the matter. All directions were followed to the dot, yet after a few days, following the most indiscreet inquiry conducted by the onlookers, one had to surrender to the evidence: the magical feat had completely failed. The simpletons' were disappointed, and 'the strong spirits' triumphed. As for me, that failure changed my point of view, prompting me to come out of my secrecy. With satisfaction I realized the fact that the surest recipes cannot succeed without the master's touch, that a piece of plastic will remain harmless until a skillful hand applies a detonator to it. There will always be the point of efficacy of the secret that cannot be discerned in the mere revelation of making and will be transmitted only within the free margin of an esoteric teaching, that of savoir-faire, of skill that the master teaches the disciple, without words.

This being the case, I could say anything without feeling any qualms of conscience: the matches I offer to children have no phosphorus, and prudence no longer demanded that magic remain a reserved field of action.

To ascertain this totally, unbeknownst to all I began again on the same guinea pig the experiment so miserably failed. This time, however, it was not an amateur's undertaking: in carrying out the experiment itself I neglected nothing, not a single gesture, a single word or a single wish, and I was meticulous in my choice of location and accessories.

The result was not long in coming, and I got to know him through the confidence made to me by the person concerned, whom I gladly hastened to reassure, promising him that his incontinence would not last a single night longer, and it was not difficult for me to keep my promise.

The Good Friday detonator

If further proof of the decisive importance to be attached to the 'master's touch' was needed, I would have it through another experience I had that I wish to narrate because it constitutes a lesson for skeptics as much as for those who believe.

An old woman born in Algeria knew the secret to healing three very common ailments especially in North Africa: sunstroke, stye and intestinal embarrassment. She was not a healer by profession, and used the gift solely to help her family and friends. Driven out of her country and taking refuge in Paris, she had continued for some time to exercise her charitable talents. Later, with the onset of old age, she thought she should pass on her secret so that when she died it would not be lost. That secret had been revealed to her by her mother, who in turn had received it from her own parent, etc., without it being possible to find the beginning of the chain.

Due to an unforeseen combination of circumstances I was chosen as heir to that gift. The old lady explained to me what the secret consisted of and indeed gave me the written recipe for it, as well as the text of the prayers suitable for each of the healings I would have the power to work. But in reality, she told me, you will only be able to truly heal after I have transmitted the gift to you, and that passage takes place at noon on Good Friday. So come and see me on that day and we will conclude the work.

Although I am neither credulous nor superstitious by nature, I accept with curious sympathy all the proceedings of faith, even if they are naïve or sometimes even ridiculous, and I reject none of the bizarre accoutrements, none of the derisive grimaces that perhaps, after all, are only the sieve that allows one to communicate with some unseen forces. I therefore resigned myself willingly to delay my departure for the vacations by a few days in order to be in Santo and receive the secret Paris on the day in the traditional forms. of Friday.

Nonetheless, without waiting for initiation, I wanted to see if I could put into operation the new powers whose methods of use I knew the healer had written down in her own hand. It was February, and 'sunstrokes' appeared hard to come by, but both intestinal embarrassments and styes were easily found. I therefore proceeded to apply my recipes with meticulous care on some very characteristic cases, but my failure was total.

On the day of Good Friday I was punctual for the appointment and the old lady transmitted her powers to me. There was no ceremony, no dressing, no exchange of mysterious formulas, but only the repetition of the gestures and words I already knew, but done on a certain day and at a certain time: in this consisted the whole secret, the humble and derisive detonator that would be sufficient to make the gift received operative for me. At the first opportunity, and that was a few days later, I was able to verify it and was disturbed to find that the miracle was now taking place.

Fire in the dust of the miracle

The effectiveness of the secret is linked to an indefinable breath that the spirit passes over the letter, at