Neil Gray
In the beginning, there was the flame. Not the flame of hearth or candle, but the black flame that burns in the hidden chambers of the human mind — the flame that whispers across millennia, that invites us to step beyond the veil and confront the unknown. This flame is magick, not the parlour tricks of stage illusionists, not the flicker of lights and smoke for amusement. No. This is the flame of power, the current of forbidden knowledge, the art that the Church has sought to suppress and kings have feared, and yet one that humanity has pursued relentlessly, from the tombs of Egypt to the glittering streets of modern metropolises.
To trace magick is to trace humanity itself — its rebellion, its awe, its desire to bend reality to the will. The texts that survive, the grimoires, the scrolls, the diaries of madmen and visionaries, are all relics of that eternal confrontation with the unseen. Some are vessels of wisdom; others, cursed vessels, said to consume the reader. Some are whispered about in candlelit libraries; others are burned in secret, deemed too dangerous for mortal eyes. And yet, here we are, ready to follow the current, to read what has been forbidden, and to understand what it meant to those who wielded it.
The Nature of Magick
Before we embark on the chronological pilgrimage through grimoires, it is necessary to define our terms. Magick, with a k, is not mere illusion. Aleister Crowley, the prophet and architect of Thelema, defined it simply:
Magick is the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will.
But this definition, precise as it is, does not capture the soul of the thing. Magick is a dialogue with the cosmos, a negotiation with forces unseen, a shaping of reality through intent, ritual, and knowledge.
It is also dangerous. Every century, every practitioner, every scholar who reaches too far risks being consumed. The ancients understood this. The Egyptians who etched spells into tomb walls knew that the wrong word, the wrong symbol, could summon forces they could not control. The medieval magi, the Renaissance scholars, the practitioners of ceremonial magic — all spoke in hushed tones of books that “read the reader” and rituals that demanded purification beyond the physical. The danger is not metaphorical; it is a warning etched into history.
A Series in Two Currents
This series, In the Shadow of the Flame: A History of Magick, flows along two intertwined rivers. One is the historical current: tracing the evolution of magical practice, from the first codified rituals of Egypt through Greek syncretism, the grimoires of the Renaissance, the angelic languages of Dee, to Crowley and the post-Crowleyan currents of chaos magick. This current is scholarly, analytical, but never dry; history itself is dark, and history itself has rhythm.
The second is the mythic current, the undercurrent of forbidden knowledge. Here lie the grimoires whispered about in shadows, the texts said to be cursed or too potent for mortal minds. From the Picatrix, whose celestial secrets were deemed madness-inducing, to the Grand Grimoire, whose instructions for infernal pacts could damn a soul, these books are both historical artifacts and living myths. To engage with them is to engage with danger itself — and yet, in their danger, they illuminate the human obsession with power, knowledge, and transcendence.
The interplay of these currents is the heartbeat of the series. History gives us context; legend gives us terror; the texts themselves give us a window into the minds of those who would command the unseen.
The Flame of Antiquity
The earliest surviving magical texts — the Egyptian Book of the Dead, the Pyramid Texts, the Coffin Texts — are more than instructions for the afterlife. They are expressions of a human desire to transcend mortality, to communicate with forces beyond comprehension. They speak in metaphor, in ritual gestures, in symbols that are both simple and infinitely complex. Here, magick is intimately tied to survival, to guidance through death, to the mastery of one’s soul in the face of the eternal void.
From Egypt, the flame travels into Greece, where the Greek Magical Papyri fuse Egyptian ritual with Hellenistic thought. Here, we see invocations to gods and daemons, spells for love, for protection, for vengeance. And yet, even then, the texts carry warnings: a misstep can summon catastrophe; a mispronounced name can bind the practitioner instead of the spirit. This is the first taste of danger, the first hint that knowledge itself is a weapon, and wielding it demands discipline and respect.
The Magus and the Renaissance
As centuries pass, magick evolves. The Renaissance brings a flowering of learning and curiosity, and with it, grimoires such as the Clavicula Salomonis (Key of Solomon), the Arbatel, and later the Sworn Book of Honorius. These are manuals of power — some benevolent, some perilous — that codify centuries of magical practice.
And here begins the interplay of myth and history. Books like the Picatrix were banned, censored, or hidden because they were considered too dangerous. The legends surrounding them — that they could drive a reader mad, summon forces that could not be controlled, or reveal truths too terrible to bear — are inseparable from their practical content. To study these texts is to understand not only the art of ritual but also the human fear of knowledge that exceeds comprehension.
Crowley and the Modern Current
The 20th century brings us to the era of Aleister Crowley, the “Great Beast,” the prophet of Thelema. Crowley’s Book of the Law is itself a dangerous text, received in 1904 under conditions of strict ritual and seclusion. It does not merely instruct; it demands transformation. Crowley’s writings, from Magick in Theory and Practice to The Vision and the Voice, synthesize centuries of occult tradition, and in doing so, they carry forward the dual currents of history and danger.
Crowley himself warned against casual engagement with magick. For him, the texts were tools — for the prepared, the disciplined, the devoted. For the unprepared, they were perilous. The line between mastery and destruction is thin, and the current that flows from the Egyptian tombs to the Golden Dawn and beyond is one that tests every practitioner.
The Dangerous and the Forbidden
This series will not shy from the shadows. Alongside the historical works, we will explore those grimoires and texts considered “too dangerous” by practitioners. Some are real, some are myth, and some exist in the liminal space where belief shapes reality. They include:
The Picatrix, “poisoned with the stars.”
The Grand Grimoire and Grimorium Verum, manuals of infernal pacts.
The Book of Abramelin, whose six-month angelic ordeal could destroy the unworthy.
Crowley’s Book of the Law, which transforms — and sometimes consumes — those who read it without devotion.
By examining these works, we will not only recount history but enter into the mythology of danger itself. We will explore why some texts were hidden, why some practices were feared, and why magick remains, to this day, a perilous art.
The Flame That Endures
Magick is eternal because the desire to confront the unknown is eternal. From the tomb walls of Egypt to the chaos rituals of the 21st century, the flame burns. It is a current that has been shaped by every generation of magi, scholars, and dreamers. It is a current of knowledge, power, and sometimes destruction.
As we begin this journey, we will encounter texts, rituals, and philosophies that have shaped human history in ways often hidden, often suppressed, and sometimes deliberately obscured. We will explore not only what these texts say but what they demand — and what they take.
Step carefully, reader. This is no theatre. This is no parlor trick. This is magick in its raw, terrifying, and awe-inspiring form. And as you follow the current, as you trace the lineage of flame, remember this: knowledge itself is power, and power carries its price.
Welcome to the Shadow of the Flame.
