drivel:
We must start with the myth of Virgo and Aquarius.
Each of us must surely have wondered why the signs of the Zodiac are mostly animals, and why these particular animals and not others; and why Libra – the Scales – is among them, and then why two humans are also among them. Most important, we wonder why these two people are not just a man and a woman but the Watercarrier and the Virgin.
The ancient legends that lie at the source of this intricate construction tell the story of the Cosmic Division.
In the beginning there was Monos, a homogeneous entity, closed and infinite like the surface of a sphere. But the defining principle of his existence was flawed: Monos, in his monomania, folded in upon himself, sank deeper and deeper into his Monosity, and sought his own destruction. Finally, when he reached the critical moment, he spoke. It was the last instinct, perhaps, of his fading will to exist. He said ‘I’: ‘I am.’ Having spoken, he heard himself; and, having heard himself, he ceased to be a monolith: he became Hearing and Voice. He split himself in two. In short, by his act of speech he became Heteros.
This new principle of existence remains the foundation on which the world is built.
The Zodiac is an ingenious expression of this dualism. Everything that is, is a duality: it has its ‘thesis’ and its ‘antithesis’, and these, in their eternal conflict, cause the world to oscillate. All forms of life embody this duality. Hence we have two Fish (Pisces) and the Twins (Gemini). Nearly all the animals exhibit some sign of it: the Ram (Aries), the Bull (Taurus) and the Goat (Capricorn) have two horns; the Scorpion (Scorpio) and the Crab (Cancer) have two front pincers.
The most perfect embodiment of this dualism is to be found in the human pair: the Virgin (Virgo) and the Watercarrier (Aquarius). Alone, each is incomplete; together, they form a unity and a whole. And while Leo (the Lion) and Sagittarius (the Archer) form a hostile pair, expressing man’s conflict with the beast that lurks within him and his desire to destroy it, the Virgin and the Watercarrier together express love; they are the ‘north’ and the ‘south’ of the universe, its two poles, which, bound by the force of mutual attraction, create a magnetic tension.
This beautiful idea was echoed as early as the fourteenth century, in the work of the divine Florentine. This is how Dante ends his Divine Comedy:
The love that moves the sun and the other stars.
But that isn’t all the ancient legends have to say about the Virgin and the Watercarrier. It turns out that these two figures, which move the world by the force of their mutual attraction, have other, deeper and more complicated meanings. They appear to be the figures of a young girl and a mature man, but when we look at what they are doing, it turns out that each of them represents an element that contradicts this embodiment.
Aquarius, the Watercarrier, is presented in a desert landscape, giving water to fish. He pours it out carefully from a jug that is always full. The Virgin, meanwhile, sits or kneels gazing dreamily into the distance, a goose-quill pen in her hand.
What is the significance of these objects, these poses and these occupations?
Let us note, first of all, the fundamental difference between the two figures: while Aquarius is clearly busy with something (pouring water from a jug), Virgo cannot be said to be doing anything much. She dreams, she gazes – perhaps she wants to write? – but this cannot be called work.
Next, let us recall what water symbolises. Water invariably signifies a source, a beginning. It is the materia prima. In the Indian tradition, for instance, water is the source of the Cosmic Egg; in the Hebrew Genesis, at the dawn of all things, the spirit of God moves upon the face of the waters. For this reason water is always associated with the female element, with fertility, with dark, unknown depths and life-giving powers.
And indeed, did life not begin in water? Did it not creep out to land from the dark womb of the sea?
Aquarius, then, although embodied in the form of a man, actually represents all that is female. By giving water he gives life; he watches over life’s creation. And at the same time, with the sound of splashing water, he beckons, he tempts.
And what about Virgo? We have already observed that she sits idle, lost in thought, holding a goose-quill pen and gazing off into the distance. The goose-quill pen symbolises the art of literature – originally a male domain. Our word poetry comes from the Greek poiein, which means to make, to produce or create. The ability to create – especially out of nothing – is a divine attribute, and God as a causative force is always male. (Woman does not create out of nothing; she transforms what there is.) Thus the poet is essentially male, even if physically a member of the fairer sex. Look at Sappho, for instance – we know what she was like.
Virgo, then, although embodied in the form of a woman, actually represents all that is male.
This is also expressed in her name, associated with virginity, purity and innocence. These may appear to be female characteristics, but in the sphere of ideas virginity is a male attribute. Womanhood, in fact, is never a state of virginity: Woman is always initiated. The Male, on the other hand, cut off from blood – menstruation, defloration, giving birth – not only is in a state of virginity but cannot be otherwise. Maleness is by its very nature always inexperienced, always uninitiated.
That virginity and maleness are indissolubly linked is a truth so glaringly obvious that it hardly needs stating. It even finds expression in some Romance languages, especially in French: the French virginité and virginal come from the Latin vir, which means man, or male. What further proof could one want?
Virgo and Aquarius, then, the royal pair united by love, only appear to be a young woman and an older man. In fact they are a young man and a mature woman. It is he who gazes into the distance, innocent and inexperienced, daydreaming and composing poetry; while she, experienced and knowing, well aware of what is important, beckons to him enticingly with the splashing sound of water. ‘Come, here is the source,’ she seems to be saying, ‘come to me and I will let you drink; I will quench your thirst.’
Let us now leave these celestial heights and descend from the firmament to the earth.
Since the day I discovered this myth and learnt the deeper significance hidden in the signs of the Zodiac, I have been testing it, checking how much of it is confirmed in practice, and whether Virgos really are in some way connected with Aquariuses. Naturally, I began with myself. To whom am I drawn? Who, I asked myself, dazzles me? Who has the power to captivate me, to charm and beguile me like the Erl King? Is there such a person? Yes – Mozart, the greatest genius who ever lived. His music enthrals me, enraptures me; I could listen to it forever. He is the love of my life, the altar at which I worship.
And what is his sign? On which day of what month did he come into the world?
The date of his birth is engraved in my memory like holy writ; my music teacher drilled it into me from my very first lessons:
the twenty-seventh of January
The sun on that day was in the first decade of Aquarius.
And I am not alone. My case is a common, even classic, one.
Take, for example, the greatest of the Virgos – Goethe. (Goethe, let us recall, was born on the twenty-eighth of August.) As we all know, Goethe had a rich life. He knew hundreds, even thousands of people, and to many of them he was bound by some special circumstance or connection. But three
