The Book of Early Whisperings

Welcome, dear readers. I trust you have all been well and well engaged in your activities.

Today, I’m heading back to writing a small review. This follows on from the similar other reviews I have done of Albert Camus’s The Outsider/Stranger, and a thought/review amalgamation of Planescape: Torment (found  here, and here respectively), although this one is much shorter and less in-depth, for ease of accessibility.

I am reviewing the limited de luxe edition of Walter Russell’s The Book of Early Whisperings (1949). This book includes his illustrations: these seem to glow off of the page with a sort of hazy luminosity.

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REVIEW

WALTER RUSSELL’S THE BOOK OF EARLY WHISPERINGS

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It starts with Russell’s foreword, which is quite the scene setter.

These writings are the whisperings of God’s Voice to me during those early periods of illumination which occurred in May of every year of my life from the age of seven. . .

The book immediately presents itself as a personal source of Russell’s own re-occurring meditations. These meditations focus on a cosmic awareness whereupon he becomes one with nature and God. But “God” here denotes God as something not pertaining to Religion, as that is not what Russell is focused on. Religion is a creation of man, but God simply is, and that is what is important to note here. His focus is mostly Ontological, focused with ‘being’, but it also is a precursor to his personal philosophy and of cosmogony.  He presents the book as a tool to help us realise our own unique powers.

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Walter Russell’s Song of Rushing Waters.

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What is most immediately interesting is the structure of the prose itself; Russell speaks as if part of the world itself and, in the beginning at least, somewhat slightly torn from it. For example, “With my feet firmly planted to earth I tear trees from their rooms and dash them aside”. Later, this becomes “. . .thy gnarled arms bear witness of thy struggle for existence on the bleak days when the wind howls and strips thee of thy unmatured seed cones”.

There is no separation between the air of the hills, the air within his lungs, the blood in his own veins and the cool water of the springs. As such, it reads like he is both a vessel in his body describing this world, traversing through it in its stages, as well as deeply bonding with it and slowly becoming totally inseparable from it. The book moves in a seasonal way, and the imagery, tone of Russell’s voice and pace all accordingly change. Where it eventually reaches is a sort of embrace in the sublime wonder of nature, his own love for all life and a sort of transcendent bliss.

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Walter Russell’s I love a Bar Way

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What he is always concerned with is small details, and describes these as if almost about to cry in the presence of their beauty. This is the book I see Thoreau reading whilst living in his Transcendental paradise in the woods, away from all other humankind and at peace with himself and nature. It is poetry as if sucked from the midnight air and the light from the stars.

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Thanks again, everyone!

I hope you enjoy the post.

As always, comments, thoughts and similar things are always welcome.

Peace,

Tom.

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