The God of the Labyrinth

by Colin Wilson

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s that foul woman. I think she uses hypnotism. As she talked to me . . .’

  She couldn’t go on. I held her close again, but this time without desire. I pointed out that it was hardly shameful to be susceptible to suggestion. A little more questioning revealed that Frau Dunkelman had talked about sexual ceremonies. Angela said:

  ‘I know, but it felt so awful. I wanted to rape you.’

  ‘Don’t let me dissuade you.’

  But we both knew the fever had passed. To prove it, I pressed her on to the bed, and kissed her gently, then stroked her breasts and thighs with my hand. She relaxed like a child. We could have made love then, but it would have been the gentle love-making of a married couple, an extension of our kisses, not an erotic frenzy. Ten minutes later, when there was a ring at the doorbell, I was having a badly needed martini, and Angela was in the shower.

  Körner was a strange-looking man; tall, with stooped shoulders, and an almost completely bald head; he reminded me imme­diately of the conductor Fürtwangler. The chin seemed weak, and the face somehow indeterminate; yet the overall effect was of a strange, introverted intelligence. His voice was rather high-pitched, but gentle, and almost hypnotic after he had been speaking for a few minutes. The German accent was strong. His grey suit looked expensive, but well worn and slightly baggy.

  He refused a drink—‘I take only a little fruit juice’—and then sat on the edge of a deep armchair with his bony hands loosely between his knees, managing to look at the same time uncomfortable and relaxed. When Angela came in, he leapt to his feet, and bowed over her hand with a natural courtliness and grace that seemed an expression of his inner character. Angela suggested he sit on the settee; this time, he flung himself back into a corner with exaggerated casualness and crossed his legs, revealing silk socks with a bright check pattern. Then he began:

  ‘Well, my dear Mr Sorme, this is really a great honour for me. I know your books well, of course. [This later turned out to be true; in his pedantic German manner, he quoted from them extensively.] And let me say at once that I hope you will find a few of my ideas as interesting as I find yours . . .’

  I could see that Angela was dying to ask him about the Dunkelmans, but it was difficult to interrupt the flow of conver­sation about ideas; besides, one got the feeling that he would find it trivial in comparison to discussing Hölderlin and Jaspers.

  I shall not try to report his conversation fully. It went on, fairly steadily, until he left at midnight. It ranged from German romanticism and metaphysics to the ideas of Reich and his own development of them. I can only try to offer a sketch of his central ideas.

  The Dunkelmans had outlined the position of Wilhelm Reich. Körner described it much more fully: the three periods, begin­ning with his work as a Freudian, then his breakaway from Freud into ‘character analysis’—which most psychologists would consider his major contribution—and finally, his ‘crank’ period as a ‘physicist’, when he believed he had discovered a mysterious energy called ‘orgone’ that could be concentrated in various strange ways. What surprised me was that Körner approved of Reich’s more or less materialistic theories about neurosis (Reich was a member of the Communist party until he was expelled for his heterodox views on the causes of fascism).

  I began to understand Körner better when he talked about Reich’s concept of ‘character armour’: how people develop various rigidities of character to cover up their inadequacies and insecurities, and how these rigidities may eventually become a suit of armour that suffocates the person inside. Körner had obviously taken this to heart. It seemed to be his aim to have absolutely no character armour; he seemed utterly fluid and unprotected. He told us frankly how Reich had cured him of a muscular stiffness that had caused him agonies of cramp. This stiffness was basically due to the embarrassment of an over­sensitive man—as when a schoolboy’s writing hand begins to feel stiff when the teacher looks over his shoulder.

  After all this, it was difficult to understand how Körner made his transition to his theory of the subconscious—although he himself professed to see no inconsistency. His notion, basically, is that civilisation and reason have forced man into an artificial mould. He saw man’s ability to think logically as a fall from grace, a form of original sin. He called consciousness ‘artificial daylight’, and compared it to electric lighting that has enabled man to see in the dark, but which has the effect of sharply cutting him off from the night outside his windows. Animals, he said, are somehow identified with Nature; man is trapped inside his electric-lighted room of consciousness.

  This shows particularly in the sexual sphere, for sex belongs essentially to that ‘night’ outside the windows. Animals slide into sex like a crocodile sliding off a sandbank into the water (Körner’s image); man has to dive in from a high bank. He gets there all right; but unless he is a good diver, the impact may destroy him. It is true, he said, that sex depends upon the separateness of male and female, as a dynamo depends upon the polarity of magnets. But we have exaggerated this separate­ness until it has become another lock on the prison door. Frustra­tions built up; we become alienated from society and from one another, as well as from Nature. The sickness shows in the increase in crime, and in the sickeningly barbarous nature of certain crimes—he cited a number of examples mentioned in my own books.

  The answer, according to Körner, is beautifully simple. Sex must be ‘disinfected’, until the sexual relation between human beings is as natural as between animals. If the great sexual barrier can be removed from between people, the old link between the conscious and the subconscious will be re-established; man will have the advantage of his civilisation—which will cease to be a Frankenstein’s monster—and the simplicity of a healthy animal. The Book of Genesis is right in declaring that ‘sin’ came with man’s consciousness of sexual shame. All shame must vanish.

  Alastair returned home while Körner was expounding Reich; he was so fascinated that he forgot to pour himself a drink. An hour later, I suggested that we all go out for supper, and continue the ‘discussion’ (which was really almost a lecture, although delivered with the most charming informality). We had Chablis with the meal, and Körner drank two glasses, with water in. Then we walked around the block for a while—Körner said he needed constant physical exercise if his mind was working well—and then went back to the flat. I had certain reservations about Körner’s ideas, but I could see that the other two found them revelatory. Without prompting, Angela described the sexual repressions of her childhood, and Alastair told us how he had never lost the feeling of shame at being discovered masturbating in the lavatory of his public school by someone who looked over the partition. I saw Angela looked startled at this; I suppose it had never struck her that boys are that highly sexed. And then, to my amazement, Angela proceeded to describe what had hap­pened to us last time we had been to the Dunkelmans. I thought at first that she only meant to tell him how Anna Dunkelman insisted on exposing herself; but after blushing, and glancing at me, she plunged on to talk about what had happened in the taxi. It was Alastair’s turn to look startled, if not shocked. She ended: ‘How would you explain that?’

  Körner looked interested and concerned; he kept nodding his head slowly.

  ‘They are cunning, very cunning. I had to expel them from our group because what they really wanted was to organise a society for sexual orgies. [When Angela said: ‘That’s what they said about you’, he nodded even more gravely.] You see, they are not truly civilised human beings. They belong to a more primitive stage of society—the stage of taboo and human sacri­fice. I will tell you what led to our final break. I had to go to Germany to arrange some legal affairs. I knew Reich trusted them, so I left them in charge of our group. She came along to a meeting one day with a great wooden phallus—what you would call a dildo. She claimed it had been used by an African tribe for the ceremonial deflowering of captured virgins before they w
ere sacrificed. You know that it is one of our basic principles that our exercises in intimacy should stop short of sexual inter­course. This is not because we regard it as bad, you understand, but because it releases the tension too quickly, and the tension should be built up until it can be used to transform the mind. [I thought of the Huldeians and their ceremonies with sacred virgins.] These two—these Dunkelmans—did not try to contra­dict this idea directly. But they insisted that some of our intimacy exercises should culminate in a sort of priest making love to a woman with the dildo, and squirting warm milk into her at the moment of orgasm. Of course, they all enjoyed this, and the girls used to get so excited that they all screamed as the woman had an orgasm. Of course, the “priest” was usually Klaus Dunkel­man. He used to insist on being fully dressed, in an evening suit, but with his penis sticking out of his trousers, and painted with bright colours like a snake. (Reich said that the Dunkelmans had every perversion described by Freud.) Fortunately, I came back after this had been going on only a short time. The Dunkelmans asked for a democratic vote of the members to decide who wanted to continue the practice. [Here Körner went red, and the veins stood out on his forehead.] I told them there would be no vote. It was contrary to my ideas, and if they disagreed, they could go and form their own group. I offered to resign completely and form another group elsewhere. But of course, nobody wanted that—I had become the father figure. Only the Dunkelmans thought it would be a good idea. I had to expel them. After this, they tried to start their own groups, without success. But you see [here he raised his finger like a prophet summoning heavenly fire] they possess no intellectual foundations. In short, they are brainless.’ He pointed his finger at me. ‘And that is why they are so anxious to gain your support. Your ideas would win them disciples. You would become Frau Dunkelman’s lover . . .’

  ‘God forbid’, I said.

  ‘But you would. She knows how to gain power over men, as you saw. When she was a member of our group, she always wore the most beautiful underwear, as if she was a ravishing young girl instead of an old harridan of fifty. And I know she found many lovers.’

  Angela asked: ‘Do you think she possesses some hypnotic powers, then?’

  ‘No! Of course not. What you have just told me is simply a proof of what I have been explaining to you. The sexual gulf between human beings is not natural. Even the healthiest people are full of repressions. You are a rather puritanical girl—I would be prepared to guess that you have only had one lover? [She nodded.] So then. This woman not only speaks frankly about sex and the need to abandon repressions; she demonstrates what she means. The balance between your reason and your sexual energies is disturbed. The energies burst out like lava from a volcano, and you think she has bewitched you. You are doing it yourself.’ He smiled happily at the completeness of his demon­stration. Angela said:

  ‘And when she rang this evening . . .’

  ‘It happened again! You were reminded!’ He suddenly understood what she had said. ‘She rang you? What for?’ Angela told him, and he shook his head. ‘Ah, the cunning devils. I told you he was a murderer? In any country but Switzerland, he would have been executed. The Swiss are too tolerant.’

  As midnight struck, he looked at his watch, and sprang to his feet like a Hussar leaping to attention. ‘I must leave you. Tomorrow is a difficult time for me.’ He looked at us thought­fully. ‘I must be frank with you. My group is closely integrated because we have worked together for years, so new members are kept on a long probation. But in this case, I feel that haste is justified. I had already decided to ask friend Gerard to an intimacy group. If you two would also like to come along . . .’ Six hours before, both would have refused promptly; now they were so under his spell that they accepted with enthusiastic gratitude. I asked when.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon. You have a car?’

  Alastair nodded.

  ‘Good. I shall send someone to fetch you at midday tomorrow. You will realise why I cannot give you the address.’

  He clicked his heels, bowed slightly, and left. I expected Alastair and Angela to hurry off to bed—I was ready to sleep—but I had forgotten they were both more than fifteen years my junior. They began discussing what he had said, and kept appealing to me for my opinion. I was too tired to speak about my reservations. Then Angela asked him if he had been shocked about the episode of the taxi. He flinched, then rose to it. ‘Not exactly shocked. Rather jealous. I suppose I kind of think of you as part of the family.’

  She asked: ‘And what do you think of jealousy if we all followed Otto’s ideas?’ (We were all on first-name terms.)

  ‘I don’t know. Animals get jealous, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s not the same. Otto said we’re not trying to get back to the animal. We’re trying to combine the animal’s naturalness with human intelligence.’

  I could see she would make an admirable disciple; she already had all the answers at her fingertips.

  He said pacifically: ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am. I love Gerard. [I blinked.] I love you too. Gerard likes you and you like Gerard. Why shouldn’t we treat one another as if we belonged to the same family?’

  I felt that her logic was getting slightly mixed, but I said nothing. Finally, I yawned, and intimated that I wanted to sleep. The bed-settee was in the room we were sitting in. At this, she proposed that they should let me alone, and go and continue their discussion in his room. I opened up the settee, changed into my pyjamas, and was asleep within minutes. I woke at one point when the door clicked; in the light from the window, I saw a naked figure—I could not tell if it was Alastair or Angela—go to the bathroom. Then it re-emerged, and went back into the bedroom. I sank back into a heavy sleep. The sunlight woke me at about five o’clock. I opened my eyes, and was mildly surprised to find Angela’s head on the pillow beside me. When I stirred, I was even more surprised to find that Alastair was lying on the other side of her. I went to the bathroom, then climbed into Angela’s empty bed, and slept for another four hours. I am not opposed to ‘intimacy’, but for sleeping purposes I prefer a bed to myself.

  The telephone rang five times that morning. We assumed it to be Anna Dunkelman, and left it unanswered. The sixth time, Alastair answered it; it was Anna Dunkelman. Alastair said we were both out for the day, and rang off before further compli­cations could develop.

  At a quarter to midday, there was a ring at the doorbell. A powerfully-built, bullet-headed youth stood there. We invited him in, and he sat on the settee, looking shy. He refused tea and coffee, explaining that he did not drink either. We asked him what we should take with us for the weekend; he shook his head vaguely and said: ‘Er . . . nothing.’ His name was Chris Ramsay, and he hardly seemed the type to be a disciple of Körner’s; there was something innocent and very likeable about him, but he hardly seemed to be a man of ideas. He talked about wrestling, water-skiing and parachute jumping. We threw a few clothes into one case, and went out of the house with Chris. He was driving a small sports car. He suggested that I drive with him, and that the other two should follow in Angela’s Cortina. We drove off up the Edgware Road, then cut across to Barnet and Potters Bar. We drove through Welwyn Garden City, then turned off the main road. A mile or so farther on, we came to a long red-brick wall, with trees behind it. Two peeling gateposts in whitewashed cement led to a drive full of potholes. The house was a fairly large but dilapidated Regency structure. The lawns and flower beds were, on the whole, better tended than the house.

  The afternoon was mild and delicious. There was a smell of cut grass in the air, and the sound of water from a small weir behind the house. Chris told me the place had belonged to one of Gurdjieff’s groups, and had been taken over by them. Since the people in the nearby village were used to the oddities of Gurdjieff’s disciples, they were incurious about this new group. This, as I already realised, was just as well; it would have provided a sensational scoop for t
he News of the World. And this was brought home immediately. Since Körner had appar­ently not yet arrived, I strolled around the house, through the wet grass (there had been a shower as we came through Wel­wyn). Around the back of the house, under the shade of the trees, two naked figures were wallowing in the grass. They sat up, smiled at me, then went on with their rolling. One was a pretty but plump girl who looked about sixteen; the other was a stringy middle-aged man. I said: ‘Excuse me.’ As I started to go away, the girl called: ‘Come and join us.’ ‘Join you in what?’ ‘It’s an intimacy-with-Nature session. The wet grass feels delicious.’ I explained that I was new here. She asked: ‘Are you shy?’ ‘No.’ It was a challenge. ‘Then come on.’ The man seemed to be as welcoming as the girl—in his place, I would have resented the intrusion of a third party. I stripped off my clothes—there was no embarrassment in this, for I usually wander around the house naked when I first get out of bed—and went over to sit down. ‘Try it,’ the man said. I laid down on the grass and rolled, feeling rather foolish. But he was right; it was a delicious sensation on the naked skin. When I’d rolled until I felt a little chilly, I went and lay in the sun, which soon dried me. The man was now lying on his back, and the girl was pulling up handfuls of the grass and rubbing it into him, caressing him with it. After a few minutes of this, she lay down on her back, with her thighs open, and he did the same, pulling up large bunches, with earth still adhering to some of them, and rubbing the grass quite gently over her breasts and belly. He said to me: ‘Come and help.’ I preferred a sitting position, to hide my rising interest in the girl, whose open legs aroused Pavlovian responses; but when, after a moment of effort, this vanished, I went over to them, pulled up some grass—they had moved because the previous spot was denuded—and tried to rub her as the man had; I soon gave this up and followed my own instinct, lowering the wet ends of the grass until it touched her sunlit breasts, then letting it descend and caress gently. I was successful; she gave a gasp of pleasure, and moved her hips sensuously. She said to the man: ‘He has a marvellous touch.’ I used the grass as I might have used my tongue if I had been trying to arouse her. When I reached her navel, she opened her thighs wider.