by John Norman
Belief in the evil eye, the capacity of an individual to injure, or even kill, with so little as a glance, has, historically, been one of the most ubiquitous superstitions afflicting the human race. It is a belief which, dreadful though it may be, is common, familiar, and pervasive. It seems almost ineradicable. It emerges sometimes in surprising environments. It has been entertained in a wide diversity of cultures and accepted by diverse races and peoples. It has characterized a variety of divergent eras. It is one of the dark threads woven into the fabric of human history. And, I fear, it is still with us.
Although the account I would give here is trivial and local, dealing with only a handful of people, none of whom you are likely to know, I think it would not be remiss for me to set this matter into a larger context, briefly, however inadequately. It seems, unfortunately, that what occurred, although unusual, was not unprecedented. My subsequent research has led me to believe that the events of which I would here give an account are, unhappily, in no way unique.
The power of the evil eye was recognized in ancient Greece, the culture of which was rather darker and more bizarre than one might gather from the stones of the Parthenon, the dialogues of Plato, the treatises of Aristotle, the benign conversations in the garden of Epicurus, and so on. A transliteration of the relevant Greek expression would be byokagia. The Romans, predictably, shared the unsettling apprehensions of their cultural mentors to the east, and, as one might expect of so practical a people, literally legislated against it, particularly, it seems, in order to protect crops, thought to be at risk from the baleful gaze of one whom today we would think of as a jettatore. Crop failure in an agrarian economy, naturally, would be catastrophic. The pertinent Latin expression is fascinatio, which word is obviously, if peculiarly, etymologically linked to ‘fascination’ in English. Words, as Nietzsche has pointed out, are like pockets. They can contain different things, and different things at different times, a point also made by Wittgenstein. An interesting example of such a linguistic wandering is the expression ‘bonfire’, which is likely to conjure up images of camping out, roasting marshmallows, and such. Originally it was a “bone fire” and dates from the times of the great plagues, when there were too few left alive to bury the dead, or too few who dared to do so. To be sure, the semantic trail here, with respect to ‘fascination’, whatever its length and vagaries, is not utterly unrelated to its origin. One might speak, for example, of a fascinating woman, one who is captivating or bewitching, one who casts her spell, one who enraptures, one who is enchanting, and so on. Closer to the original meaning would presumably be a usage where, say, a small rodent might be immobilized by, or fascinated by, the glinting eye of the nearing snake.
Belief in, and fear of, the evil eye was endemic in the Middle Ages. It was one of less estimable cultural artifacts bequeathed from the ancient world, which doubtless had it, in its turn, from the prehistoric world, and so on. The Middle Ages were, for the most part, and on the whole, despite any curtains of charity with which they may today be politely enshrouded, ages of ignorance, cruelty, murder, filth, barbarism and superstition. That the belief in the evil eye should linger on into our own times of science, civilization, and enlightenment is much harder to understand. Perhaps we are still at the mouth of the cave, ax in hand, wary, trembling, listening to the roar of the ancient tiger.
Children and young animals, it is alleged, are particularly likely to be victims of the evil eye. They are smaller, and more vulnerable. It is rather analogous, one supposes, to the case of poison. There are, of course, procedures for protecting oneself. The most obvious is to avoid the jettatore. In some towns, at his approach, for example, the streets are cleared. People flee, go inside, lock their doors, close the shutters, and so on. The Romans and Greeks believed spitting was efficacious, and, even today, spitting is often used as an expression of casting out, of rejection, of hatred, and such. Too, certain utterances and gestures are thought useful in protecting against, or negating, the effects of the evil eye. Certain amulets and sacred writings, too, worn, or carried about the body, are regarded as efficacious against it, warding off its effects or drawing them away from the individual and unto, or within, themselves, where they are hopefully rendered harmless. Even animals, for example, camels and horses, may be accorded similar protection by peoples as culturally diverse as modern Turks, Arabs, Ethiopians, and Chinese. The amulets have many forms, such as hands, moons, frogs, and horns. The imagery and symbolism of such amulets provide a subject matter for stimulating psychiatric speculation. The hand, perhaps, signifies power; the moon waxes, swelling, and becoming larger; frogs have a capacity to leap upward, and so on. And some of the amulets seem to have a sexual imagery which is even less subtle, the horn, for example. Indeed, some of these amulets, not among those herein referenced, are explicit to the point that their description would be inappropriate in a text this academic. This seems to make sense, of course, as one might think of sexuality as the great force of life, the force of abundance, procreation, pleasure, movement, activity, tenacity, continuation, will, vigor, and such, a force appropriately to be relied on to counter those of dismay, sickness, weariness, depression, grief, misery, and death.
Inscriptions may be regarded as prophylactic, as well. In certain Turkish villages passages from the Koran may be placed on the outside walls of dwellings, to protect those within.
Belief in the evil eye, or at least a willingness to take its power seriously, can occur in otherwise astute and civilized individuals. Mr. Somerset Maugham, for example, a gifted English playwright and novelist, insisted that the covers of his books bear a sign purported to ward off the evil eye. One supposes this was not a calculated witticism, a geste jolly and satirical, a lighthearted mockery of the mysterious, unpredictable hazards of fortune.
The fear of the evil eye, it seems, is often associated with the uncertainty of life and the sense of jeopardy which is part and parcel of the human condition.
We are all at constant risk. Even into the cradle death can peer. Only fools cycle nonchalantly amidst abysses. The bacillus does not distinguish between the valiant and the craven, the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak. A cell may misdivide and vandalize tissues; a muscle may cramp, a vessel may rupture, and the virtuous and the vicious, hand in hand, mortal brothers, succumb to the same fate. A stray bullet, a loose tile, a careless motorist, an atmospheric force, a rising river, a movement of the earth can all, unexpectedly, unannounced, keep the visitor from his call, the player from his game, the scientist from his experiment, the scholar from his library, the gourmet from his dinner, the lover from his tryst. And the friend may turn; and rifles may change hands. Civility may disintegrate, trust be subverted, names soiled, character treacherously knifed in the back, reputations vanish like smoke. New Huns ride to the gates; once again the statues are overturned, broken, and cast into the dust; once again the tablets are destroyed; again the temples are profaned; and again a culture inexplicably languishes and dies. It is not only we who are vulnerable, but that which most we love. One weeps as treasures are defiled, and lost. Is only the grunting, rooting pig eternal?
We can control so little in our lives; we are so much at the mercy of the other, the alien, the inert, the random, the careless, the indifferent. We are like corks in the water. It is not we who command the currents.
One refuses to worship, as did the ancients, Fortuna, the goddess of fortune, but one continues to fear her.
It is foolish to admonish someone to live dangerously, as though it were possible to live otherwise. Life is inordinately precious, and so it is only fitting that its price is so dear, that it is paid for with death and danger. These witnesses pierce all disguises. They attend the pikeman running through the mud and the mariner in his frail bark struggling against the storm; they observe the hermit in his cave and call upon the monk in his cell. Risk unsought will arrive uninvited.
So it is not so strange that a frail primate, one naked, exposed,
and vulnerable, one subject to an unknown future and an obscure, threatening present, should fear the evil eye.
Often there seems to be some alleged relationship between envy and the evil eye. Perhaps one fears ambush. Arrows unseen may slay. Is envy alive, a force, that may somehow infect, injure, and kill? One fears to be envied. Let the king in his palace pretend to be the servant of the people, let the cardinal wash the feet of lepers before quaffing from the golden chalice. So the powerful, an eye on the envy of the gods, pretend weakness, the rich poverty, the saintly iniquity, the muscular debility, the beautiful plainness. One fears the glance of the evil, envying eye. How frightened is the father to hear of the prowess and bright future of his son. Will there be a future, at all? Shadows abound. Who knows what lurks within them? How terrified is the mother to hear her daughter praised, her wit, her health, and beauty. What will then happen? Is she now to sicken and die? Is she now to become maimed or disfigured? Is the pendulum to swing, is the cycle to be restored? Is good to be weighed against bad in the counting house of luck? Must the scales be balanced? Icarus flew too high, soaring too fearlessly, too splendidly, too much like a god, too near the sun, and so perished, plunging to his death below, in a cold, dark sea.
Although the fear of the force of envy is frequently associated with the fear of the evil eye, in which envy, like an arrow, lies on the bow, the string taut, this does not seem to have been the case with Mr. Silone. He was, as all indications attest, a kindly, loving man, well disposed toward his fellows, and serenely contented with the modest portion which he had been dealt in life’s game.
Yet he was, or believed himself to be, jettatore.
The usual explanation for the undoubted effects of the evil eye, which need not be denied, are found within the theory of psychological suggestion. The power of psychological suggestion is scientifically established, in numerous studies and experiments, as well as being a phenomenon often encountered in, and recognized in, ordinary life; indeed, it is, in its way, a commonplace, familiar to us in many amplitudes of everyday existence. The familiar, extensively documented, and replicable wonders of hypnosis rely upon it, of course, but hypnosis is only an outstanding, and certainly uncharacteristic, manifestation of this particular phenomenon. We do know that psychological suggestion can instigate and transform emotions, influence behavior, induce physical alterations in the body, and so on. Indeed, in some cases, it can kill.
The most likely explanation of the evil eye’s power then, it seems, would be in terms of psychological suggestion, and fear.
As you may recall, Mr. Silone had a son, whom he blinded, believing the infant to carry the dark trait of the jettatore. This paper deals, in particular, with the son, whose name is given here in a somewhat altered form, as Brunetto Alfonso Silone. The younger Silone immigrated to the United States of America as a child, the ward of an uncle, still living at the time of this writing, the pair being sponsored by American relatives, whose grandparents had been naturalized in the early twentieth century. The uncle, whom we shall call Giacomo, a conscientious, diligent, skilled craftsman, found employment at a major hospital in New York City, one noted for its teaching and research, on its considerable maintenance staff. Considering the peculiar and controversial nature of certain events to be shortly recounted, I will not identify the hospital, that in the obvious interests of discretion. To shorten the narrative, let us note that Giacomo, over the years, rose in the ranks of the maintenance staff, and eventually came to occupy therein a position of considerable authority, having responsibility for one of its major divisions. He had a reputation for organization, efficiency, and fairness. He was esteemed by his superiors, respected by his peers, and as popular with his subordinates as could be expected, given the seriousness with which he discharged the variegated responsibilities of his position. He was a familiar figure at the hospital, and a favorite of the administrative and medical staffs. The affliction of his nephew Brunetto eventually came to be known, though not how it had come about, other than that fire had been involved, and a young ophthalmological surgeon on the medical faculty, whom we shall refer to as Dr. Hill, expressed an interest in the case. His examination strongly suggested that the scarring in the eyes might be removed, with the genuine possibility that sight, after those many years of darkness, might be restored, that on the supposition that the optic nerves, and certain other tissues, were undamaged. Dr. Hill’s interests here were not merely humanitarian, though they were genuinely and clearly that, but he had found the case of independent clinical interest, and thought its treatment might prove instructive to his students. He offered to perform the operation without a fee. One can then imagine his surprise when neither Giacomo nor Brunetto, who was now a handsome young man in his thirties, except for his disfiguration, leapt at this generous offer. Neither expressed enthusiasm nor gratitude. Indeed, both seemed decidedly uneasy. Naturally Dr. Hill, who was not only curious but, by now, somewhat irritated, inquired into these matters, and, indeed, pressed into them with perhaps more energy than was professionally appropriate. Soon the bitter story of the elder Silone became clear, articulated from the trembling lips of his tearful brother, the old craftsman, Giacomo. Dr. Hill, who was not thought to be an emotional man, threw back his head, slapped his knee and laughed, uncontrollably, tears of unrestrained mirth flowing from his eyes. When he had regained his composure, he was embarrassed, and had the decency to apologize to the Silones. Surely their views, and more importantly, their apprehensions, should be treated with circumspection. Common courtesy would decree as much.
Naturally Dr. Hill referred Brunetto to a resident therapist, his own field being inappropriate for the treatment of the young Silone’s unusual syndrome. Dr. Hill’s field, after all, was not psychiatry.
I have sometimes wondered what might have happened if Dr. Hill had referred the case to me, rather than to my colleague. I suppose, however, that things would have turned out much the same way. It is hard to know about such things.
My colleague, whom we shall call Dr. Roberts, was a practitioner of considerable reputation. Dr. Hill’s referral could hardly be faulted on that score. Dr. Roberts eventually managed to convince a shy, reluctant, hesitant Brunetto of the likely fatuity of the impediment he and his uncle were placing in the path of an inestimable benefit. He had a measure of success, as noted, with Brunetto, who was young, and somewhat open to persuasion, but he had very little success with Giacomo, with whom he had had some five sessions, in two of which Brunetto was present. Giacomo was not young, and, for whatever reason, was less open to persuasion than his nephew. Presumably he was less free of old-world traditions, superstitions, and such.
A frightening moment in the treatment took place when Dr. Roberts, by means of hypnosis, regressed Brunetto to infancy. I heard the screams of pain even in my own office, several doors away. By associating pain with the reason for its existence, namely, the superstition, Dr. Roberts hoped to render the superstition intensely aversive to young Brunetto, so aversive that he would shun it at all costs, that he would repudiate it on the deepest level and would welcome any opportunity to undo its effects, by, for example, submitting to a redemptive surgery. And Brunetto did thereafter, a day or two later, agree to the operation. In this sense, one supposes that Dr. Roberts’ treatment was vindicated. Indeed, he seemed to regard it as a master stroke, a coup, a triumph, or one would gather that, from conversations in the staff cafeteria.
There is a distinction, of course, between what occurs and how it is understood, or interpreted. Let us suppose we wished to convince someone that lions are not dangerous. First, this would be a mistake, because lions are, in fact, dangerous. Second, an aversion to lions might certainly be induced by having one be mauled by lions. This pain would doubtless encourage one to avoid lions in the future, but it would not show that lions were harmless, or might be ignored with impunity. Analogously, by associating pain with belief in the evil eye one might reinforce the belief, rather than diminish it, or
negate it. One might make it seem more terrible, not false. On a subconscious level fear, however illogically, is taken as a sign of reality. Griffins may not exist but if one believes himself to have been attacked by a griffin, one is not likely to disbelieve in them.
I wondered what would be the case, if, supposing that there might be something within an individual, lurking within, parasitic, in its way, the parasite might be so intimately associated with the individual that it would feel its pain, or pleasure. One wonders. If scalding water were poured on a dangerous, wild animal, captive in a pit, what would be the reaction of the animal? Would it remember? Certainly one would not care to meet it, later.
The operation, in due course, was performed, and to all intents was successful.
In the course of my practice at the hospital, where I did clinical work twice a week, I had made the acquaintance of Giacomo. I was surprised, however, when he came to see me one day, a week or so before the operation, and expressed his reservations about the impending surgery. My colleague had discussed the case with me, in general terms, and so I did my best to support and reinforce his work, explaining the emptiness of superstition, its tendency to oppress human happiness, the power some try to obtain by recourse to it, the nature of psychological suggestion, and so on. I probably told Giacomo pretty much what he had already heard from Dr. Roberts.
“How do you know these things?” Giacomo asked.
“Science,” I told him.
“What means ‘science’?” he asked.
“Knowledge, basically,” I said. “Knowledge.”
“Maybe there are other sciences,” he said.
“You are afraid,” I said, “that Brunetto is a bearer or possessor of the evil eye, a jettatore?”