Gurdjieff International Review

Beelzebub, a Master Stroke

Belzébuth, un coup de maître

by Manuel Rainoird

With the translation of a 1,094 page work into French, the opportunity to feast on a banquet of ideas has been laid before us.

Has George Gurdjieff, its author, invented the literature of shock? Everything in his Beelzebub convinces us he has. In any case, it owes nothing to other works. The range of tones, encompassing every nuance from the lyrical to the down-to-earth, the continual presence of vibrations issuing from a central focus, the avalanche of images, ideas, and made-up words that suggest to us nothing we could possibly already know—“six years of work, merciless toward myself and with almost continuously tense mentation”—have resulted in a monumental accomplishment.

And when one considers his literary mastery, so clearly displayed (the genres he calls into play leave our elegant efforts far behind), the fact that he has chosen to reach an audience through forms that are difficult of access leads us to suppose it is for some reason.

The stories die away. The nonsense dissolves. A great white silence, without even the cry of a magpie, reigns in the wake of this naked, unique advent, with no echo of anything second-hand. But this is only a respite. Like the transspace ship Karnak, this meteor, clothed in the perfume of other worlds, falls into our pond. And we frogs are struck dumb in our bewilderment.…

[The complete text is available in the printed copy of this issue.]