Wasser und Atem sind Grundlagen des Lebens, mein Therapieangebot beinhaltet Atemarbeit und Atemmassagen sowie Watsu und Massagen im Wasser als. Gegründet im Jahr von der Familie Zanoni, mit 6 Hektar Rebfläche, in Quinzano bei Verona. Bestockt mit Corvina und Corvinone. Zanoni legt viel Wert auf. Firma · Projekte · Geschäftshaus Löwenplatz Zürich · Privathaus, Rigistrasse Zürich · Buchserstrasse Aarau · Laurenzenvorstadt Aarau · Turbenthal · Ferienhaus.
Zanoni & Zanoni, WienZanoni & Zanoni. LA GELATERIA ITALIANA DA Glück kann man nicht kaufen. Aber Eiscreme, das ist fast dasselbe. BENVENUTO. ZUR EISKARTE. Logo Zanoni · Wohnen · Arbeiten · Weiteres · Entwicklung · Verfahren · Kommissionen · Profil · Bereiche · Team · Wohn- und Geschäftshaus Limmatquai Marco Zanoni, Portrait- und Reportagefotograf.
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April Learn how and when to remove this template message. I found the whole written in an unintelligible cipher. Survey of modern fantasy literature.
Salem Press. The Rosicrucians. Samuel Weiser Inc. Zanoni loses his immortality by falling in love And did Zanoni really feel love for Viola? The development of the English novel.
Bulwer-Lytton humanized Gothic art No other works of the author, contradictory as have been the opinions of them, have provoked such a diversity of criticism as these.
The truth, we believe, lies midway between these extremes. By his love for Viola Zanoni is compelled to descend from his exalted state, to lose his eternal calm, and to share in the cares and anxieties of humanity; and this degradation is completed by the birth of a child.
Finally, he gives up the life which hangs on that of another, in order to save that other, the loving and beloved wife, who has delivered him from his solitude and isolation.
Wife and child are mortal, and to outlive them and his love for them is impossible. But Mejnour, who is the impersonation of thought,—pure intellect without affection,—lives on.
Bulwer has himself justly characterised this work, in the Introduction, as a romance and not a romance, as a truth for those who can comprehend it, and an extravagance for those who cannot.
What that something is, hardly two persons will agree. The most obvious interpretation of the types is, that in Zanoni the author depicts to us humanity, perfected, sublimed, which lives not for self, but for others; in Mejnour, as we have before said, cold, passionless, self-sufficing intellect; in Glyndon, the young Englishman, the mingled strength and weakness of human nature; in the heartless, selfish artist, Nicot, icy, soulless atheism, believing nothing, hoping nothing, trusting and loving nothing; and in the beautiful, artless Viola, an exquisite creation, pure womanhood, loving, trusting and truthful.
As a work of art the romance is one of great power. It is original in its conception, and pervaded by one central idea; but it would have been improved, we think, by a more sparing use of the supernatural.
The inevitable effect of so much hackneyed diablerie—of such an accumulation of wonder upon wonder—is to deaden the impression they would naturally make upon us.
A translation into French, made by M. Sheldon under the direction of P. As man has two lives,—that of action and that of thought,—so I conceive that work to be the truest representation of humanity which faithfully delineates both, and opens some elevating glimpse into the sublimest mysteries of our being, by establishing the inevitable union that exists between the plain things of the day, in which our earthly bodies perform their allotted part, and the latent, often uncultivated, often invisible, affinities of the soul with all the powers that eternally breathe and move throughout the Universe of Spirit.
It is possible that among my readers there may be a few not unacquainted with an old-book shop, existing some years since in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden; I say a few, for certainly there was little enough to attract the many in those precious volumes which the labour of a life had accumulated on the dusty shelves of my old friend D—.
The owner had lavished a fortune in the purchase of unsalable treasures. But old D— did not desire to sell.
It absolutely went to his heart when a customer entered his shop: he watched the movements of the presumptuous intruder with a vindictive glare; he fluttered around him with uneasy vigilance,—he frowned, he groaned, when profane hands dislodged his idols from their niches.
If it were one of the favourite sultanas of his wizard harem that attracted you, and the price named were not sufficiently enormous, he would not unfrequently double the sum.
Demur, and in brisk delight he snatched the venerable charmer from your hands; accede, and he became the picture of despair,—nor unfrequently, at the dead of night, would he knock at your door, and entreat you to sell him back, at your own terms, what you had so egregiously bought at his.
A believer himself in his Averroes and Paracelsus, he was as loth as the philosophers he studied to communicate to the profane the learning he had collected.
It so chanced that some years ago, in my younger days, whether of authorship or life, I felt a desire to make myself acquainted with the true origin and tenets of the singular sect known by the name of Rosicrucians.
Dissatisfied with the scanty and superficial accounts to be found in the works usually referred to on the subject, it struck me as possible that Mr.
Accordingly I repaired to what, doubtless, I ought to be ashamed to confess, was once one of my favourite haunts. But are there no errors and no fallacies, in the chronicles of our own day, as absurd as those of the alchemists of old?
Our very newspapers may seem to our posterity as full of delusions as the books of the alchemists do to us; not but what the press is the air we breathe,—and uncommonly foggy the air is too!
On entering the shop, I was struck by the venerable appearance of a customer whom I had never seen there before.
I was struck yet more by the respect with which he was treated by the disdainful collector. How—where, in this frivolous age, could you have acquired a knowledge so profound?
And this august fraternity, whose doctrines, hinted at by the earliest philosophers, are still a mystery to the latest; tell me if there really exists upon the earth any book, any manuscript, in which their discoveries, their tenets, are to be learned?
And I do not blame them for their discretion. D—, in this catalogue which relates to the Rosicrucians!
And can you imagine that any members of that sect, the most jealous of all secret societies, would themselves lift the veil that hides the Isis of their wisdom from the world?
Heaven be praised! I certainly have stumbled on one of the brotherhood. Nowadays one can hazard nothing in print without authority, and one may scarcely quote Shakespeare without citing chapter and verse.
This is the age of facts,—the age of facts, sir. It so happened that I did meet again with the old gentleman, exactly four days after our brief conversation in Mr.
I was riding leisurely towards Highgate, when, at the foot of its classic hill, I recognised the stranger; he was mounted on a black pony, and before him trotted his dog, which was black also.
In short, so well did I succeed, that on reaching Highgate the old gentleman invited me to rest at his house, which was a little apart from the village; and an excellent house it was,—small, but commodious, with a large garden, and commanding from the windows such a prospect as Lucretius would recommend to philosophers: the spires and domes of London, on a clear day, distinctly visible; here the Retreat of the Hermit, and there the Mare Magnum of the world.
The walls of the principal rooms were embellished with pictures of extraordinary merit, and in that high school of art which is so little understood out of Italy.
I was surprised to learn that they were all from the hand of the owner. My evident admiration pleased my new friend, and led to talk upon his part, which showed him no less elevated in his theories of art than an adept in the practice.
Without fatiguing the reader with irrelevant criticism, it is necessary, perhaps, as elucidating much of the design and character of the work which these prefatory pages introduce, that I should briefly observe, that he insisted as much upon the connection of the arts, as a distinguished author has upon that of the sciences; that he held that in all works of imagination, whether expressed by words or by colours, the artist of the higher schools must make the broadest distinction between the real and the true,—in other words, between the imitation of actual life, and the exaltation of Nature into the Ideal.
I suppose Shakespeare has ceased to be admired? The poet who has never once drawn a character to be met with in actual life,—who has never once descended to a passion that is false, or a personage who is real!
I was about to reply very severely to this paradox, when I perceived that my companion was growing a little out of temper.
And he who wishes to catch a Rosicrucian, must take care not to disturb the waters. I thought it better, therefore, to turn the conversation.
Perhaps you desire only to enter the temple in order to ridicule the rites? Surely, were I so inclined, the fate of the Abbe de Villars is a sufficient warning to all men not to treat idly of the realms of the Salamander and the Sylph.
I see that you fall into the vulgar error, and translate literally the allegorical language of the mystics. With that the old gentleman condescended to enter into a very interesting, and, as it seemed to me, a very erudite relation, of the tenets of the Rosicrucians, some of whom, he asserted, still existed, and still prosecuted, in august secrecy, their profound researches into natural science and occult philosophy.
Are you acquainted with the Platonists? Their sublimest works are in manuscript, and constitute the initiatory learning, not only of the Rosicrucians, but of the nobler brotherhoods I have referred to.
More solemn and sublime still is the knowledge to be gleaned from the elder Pythagoreans, and the immortal masterpieces of Apollonius.
Here ended our conversation; but from that time an acquaintance was formed between us which lasted till my venerable friend departed this life.
Peace to his ashes! He was a person of singular habits and eccentric opinions; but the chief part of his time was occupied in acts of quiet and unostentatious goodness.
He was an enthusiast in the duties of the Samaritan; and as his virtues were softened by the gentlest charity, so his hopes were based upon the devoutest belief.
He never conversed upon his own origin and history, nor have I ever been able to penetrate the darkness in which they were concealed.
He seemed to have seen much of the world, and to have been an eye-witness of the first French Revolution, a subject upon which he was equally eloquent and instructive.
At the same time he did not regard the crimes of that stormy period with the philosophical leniency with which enlightened writers their heads safe upon their shoulders are, in the present day, inclined to treat the massacres of the past: he spoke not as a student who had read and reasoned, but as a man who had seen and suffered.
The old gentleman seemed alone in the world; nor did I know that he had one relation, till his executor, a distant cousin, residing abroad, informed me of the very handsome legacy which my poor friend had bequeathed me.
This consisted, first, of a sum about which I think it best to be guarded, foreseeing the possibility of a new tax upon real and funded property; and, secondly, of certain precious manuscripts, to which the following volumes owe their existence.
I imagine I trace this latter bequest to a visit I paid the Sage, if so I may be permitted to call him, a few weeks before his death.
Although he read little of our modern literature, my friend, with the affable good-nature which belonged to him, graciously permitted me to consult him upon various literary undertakings meditated by the desultory ambition of a young and inexperienced student.
And at that time I sought his advice upon a work of imagination, intended to depict the effects of enthusiasm upon different modifications of character.
He listened to my conception, which was sufficiently trite and prosaic, with his usual patience; and then, thoughtfully turning to his bookshelves, took down an old volume, and read to me, first, in Greek, and secondly, in English, some extracts to the following effect:—.
Why not, since you are so well versed in the matter, take the motto for a book of your own? From what you say of the prevailing taste in literature, I cannot flatter you with the hope that you will gain much by the undertaking.
And I tell you beforehand that you will find it not a little laborious. It is a truth for those who can comprehend it, and an extravagance for those who cannot.
At last there arrived the manuscripts, with a brief note from my deceased friend, reminding me of my imprudent promise. With mournful interest, and yet with eager impatience, I opened the packet and trimmed my lamp.
Conceive my dismay when I found the whole written in an unintelligible cipher. I present the reader with a specimen:.
I could scarcely believe my eyes: in fact, I began to think the lamp burned singularly blue; and sundry misgivings as to the unhallowed nature of the characters I had so unwittingly opened upon, coupled with the strange hints and mystical language of the old gentleman, crept through my disordered imagination.
I was about, precipitately, to hurry the papers into my desk, with a pious determination to have nothing more to do with them, when my eye fell upon a book, neatly bound in blue morocco, and which, in my eagerness, I had hitherto overlooked.
I opened this volume with great precaution, not knowing what might jump out, and—guess my delight—found that it contained a key or dictionary to the hieroglyphics.
Not to weary the reader with an account of my labours, I am contented with saying that at last I imagined myself capable of construing the characters, and set to work in good earnest.
Still it was no easy task, and two years elapsed before I had made much progress. I then, by way of experiment on the public, obtained the insertion of a few desultory chapters, in a periodical with which, for a few months, I had the honour to be connected.
They appeared to excite more curiosity than I had presumed to anticipate; and I renewed, with better heart, my laborious undertaking.
But now a new misfortune befell me: I found, as I proceeded, that the author had made two copies of his work, one much more elaborate and detailed than the other; I had stumbled upon the earlier copy, and had my whole task to remodel, and the chapters I had written to retranslate.
I may say then, that, exclusive of intervals devoted to more pressing occupations, my unlucky promise cost me the toil of several years before I could bring it to adequate fulfilment.
The task was the more difficult, since the style in the original is written in a kind of rhythmical prose, as if the author desired that in some degree his work should be regarded as one of poetical conception and design.
Truth compels me also to confess, that, with all my pains, I am by no means sure that I have invariably given the true meaning of the cipher; nay, that here and there either a gap in the narrative, or the sudden assumption of a new cipher, to which no key was afforded, has obliged me to resort to interpolations of my own, no doubt easily discernible, but which, I flatter myself, are not inharmonious to the general design.
This confession leads me to the sentence with which I shall conclude: If, reader, in this book there be anything that pleases you, it is certainly mine; but whenever you come to something you dislike,—lay the blame upon the old gentleman!
I have occasionally but not always marked the distinction; where, however, this is omitted, the ingenuity of the reader will be rarely at fault.
At Naples, in the latter half of the last century, a worthy artist named Gaetano Pisani lived and flourished. He was a musician of great genius, but not of popular reputation; there was in all his compositions something capricious and fantastic which did not please the taste of the Dilettanti of Naples.
He was fond of unfamiliar subjects into which he introduced airs and symphonies that excited a kind of terror in those who listened.
The names of his pieces will probably suggest their nature. I find, for instance, among his MSS. It is true that in the selection of his subjects from ancient fable, Gaetano Pisani was much more faithful than his contemporaries to the remote origin and the early genius of Italian Opera.
Fortunately, or the poor musician might have starved, he was not only a composer, but also an excellent practical performer, especially on the violin, and by that instrument he earned a decent subsistence as one of the orchestra at the Great Theatre of San Carlo.
Here formal and appointed tasks necessarily kept his eccentric fancies in tolerable check, though it is recorded that no less than five times he had been deposed from his desk for having shocked the conoscenti, and thrown the whole band into confusion, by impromptu variations of so frantic and startling a nature that one might well have imagined that the harpies or witches who inspired his compositions had clawed hold of his instrument.
The impossibility, however, to find any one of equal excellence as a performer that is to say, in his more lucid and orderly moments had forced his reinstalment, and he had now, for the most part, reconciled himself to the narrow sphere of his appointed adagios or allegros.
The audience, too, aware of his propensity, were quick to perceive the least deviation from the text; and if he wandered for a moment, which might also be detected by the eye as well as the ear, in some strange contortion of visage, and some ominous flourish of his bow, a gentle and admonitory murmur recalled the musician from his Elysium or his Tartarus to the sober regions of his desk.
Then he would start as if from a dream, cast a hurried, frightened, apologetic glance around, and, with a crestfallen, humbled air, draw his rebellious instrument back to the beaten track of the glib monotony.
But at home he would make himself amends for this reluctant drudgery. And there, grasping the unhappy violin with ferocious fingers, he would pour forth, often till the morning rose, strange, wild measures that would startle the early fisherman on the shore below with a superstitious awe, and make him cross himself as if mermaid or sprite had wailed no earthly music in his ear.
The features were noble and striking, but worn and haggard, with black, careless locks tangled into a maze of curls, and a fixed, speculative, dreamy stare in his large and hollow eyes.
All his movements were peculiar, sudden, and abrupt, as the impulse seized him; and in gliding through the streets, or along the beach, he was heard laughing and talking to himself.
Withal, he was a harmless, guileless, gentle creature, and would share his mite with any idle lazzaroni, whom he often paused to contemplate as they lay lazily basking in the sun.
Yet was he thoroughly unsocial. He formed no friends, flattered no patrons, resorted to none of the merry-makings so dear to the children of music and the South.
He and his art seemed alone suited to each other,—both quaint, primitive, unworldly, irregular. You could not separate the man from his music; it was himself.
Without it he was nothing, a mere machine! WITH it, he was king over worlds of his own. Poor man, he had little enough in this! In proportion, O Genius, to thy contempt for riches will be thy performance on thy violin!
As Shakespeare among poets is the Cremona among instruments. Even bland, unjealous Paisiello, Maestro di Capella, shook his gentle head when the musician favoured him with a specimen of one of his most thrilling scenas.
And yet, Paisiello, though that music differs from all Durante taught thee to emulate, there may—but patience, Gaetano Pisani!
Strange as it may appear to the fairer reader, this grotesque personage had yet formed those ties which ordinary mortals are apt to consider their especial monopoly,—he was married, and had one child.
What is more strange yet, his wife was a daughter of quiet, sober, unfantastic England: she was much younger than himself; she was fair and gentle, with a sweet English face; she had married him from choice, and will you believe it?
How she came to marry him, or how this shy, unsocial, wayward creature ever ventured to propose, I can only explain by asking you to look round and explain first to ME how half the husbands and half the wives you meet ever found a mate!
Yet, on reflection, this union was not so extraordinary after all. The girl was a natural child of parents too noble ever to own and claim her.
She was brought into Italy to learn the art by which she was to live, for she had taste and voice; she was a dependant and harshly treated, and poor Pisani was her master, and his voice the only one she had heard from her cradle that seemed without one tone that could scorn or chide.
And so—well, is the rest natural? Natural or not, they married. This young wife loved her husband; and young and gentle as she was, she might almost be said to be the protector of the two.
From how many disgraces with the despots of San Carlo and the Conservatorio had her unknown officious mediation saved him! In how many ailments—for his frame was weak—had she nursed and tended him!
I said his music was a part of the man, and this gentle creature seemed a part of the music; it was, in fact, when she sat beside him that whatever was tender or fairy-like in his motley fantasia crept into the harmony as by stealth.
Doubtless her presence acted on the music, and shaped and softened it; but, he, who never examined how or what his inspiration, knew it not.
All that he knew was, that he loved and blessed her. He fancied he told her so twenty times a day; but he never did, for he was not of many words, even to his wife.
His language was his music,—as hers, her cares! He was more communicative to his barbiton, as the learned Mersennus teaches us to call all the varieties of the great viol family.
Certainly barbiton sounds better than fiddle; and barbiton let it be. He would talk to THAT by the hour together,—praise it, scold it, coax it, nay for such is man, even the most guileless , he had been known to swear at it; but for that excess he was always penitentially remorseful.
And the barbiton had a tongue of his own, could take his own part, and when HE also scolded, had much the best of it. He was a noble fellow, this Violin!
There was something mysterious in his great age. How many hands, now dust, had awakened his strings ere he became the Robin Goodfellow and Familiar of Gaetano Pisani!
His very case was venerable,—beautifully painted, it was said, by Caracci. An English collector had offered more for the case than Pisani had ever made by the violin.
But Pisani, who cared not if he had inhabited a cabin himself, was proud of a palace for the barbiton. His barbiton, it was his elder child!
He had another child, and now we must turn to her. How shall I describe thee, Viola? Certainly the music had something to answer for in the advent of that young stranger.
For both in her form and her character you might have traced a family likeness to that singular and spirit-like life of sound which night after night threw itself in airy and goblin sport over the starry seas Beautiful she was, but of a very uncommon beauty,—a combination, a harmony of opposite attributes.
Her hair of a gold richer and purer than that which is seen even in the North; but the eyes, of all the dark, tender, subduing light of more than Italian—almost of Oriental—splendour.
The complexion exquisitely fair, but never the same,—vivid in one moment, pale the next. And with the complexion, the expression also varied; nothing now so sad, and nothing now so joyous.
I grieve to say that what we rightly entitle education was much neglected for their daughter by this singular pair. To be sure, neither of them had much knowledge to bestow; and knowledge was not then the fashion, as it is now.
But accident or nature favoured young Viola. And she contrived soon to read and to write; and her mother, who, by the way, was a Roman Catholic, taught her betimes to pray.
But then, to counteract all these acquisitions, the strange habits of Pisani, and the incessant watch and care which he required from his wife, often left the child alone with an old nurse, who, to be sure, loved her dearly, but who was in no way calculated to instruct her.
Dame Gionetta was every inch Italian and Neapolitan. Her youth had been all love, and her age was all superstition. Zanoni represents the ideal.
All the major characters will find themselves drawn by destiny to Paris during the Reign of Terror. It is somewhat pointless to try to analyse this book in terms of plot and characterisation.
On the surface it might seem to be an historical novel but actually it is a philosophical novel that makes few concessions to realism, realism being an artistic ideal that Bulwer-Lytton regarded with contempt.
In this novel Bulwer-Lytton works out his rather eccentric but fascinating ideas on the occult. Bulwer-Lytton strongly believed that a novel must be entertaining first of all.
If the author wishes to include multiple layers of meaning and hidden depths and Zanoni includes those in abundance then he is free to do so so long as it does not detract from the enjoyment of the story.
A strange but fascinating concoction and a must-read for anyone with an interest in the development of 19th century weird fiction, and a gripping occult thriller by an author with a considerable knowledge of the subject.
Highly recommended. Encima no envejece. This book is beautiful. The writing is elegant. The characters are believable and moving.
There are few books that have moved me to tears and this book is now among those few. The book is layered wondrously. If desired, it can be read solely for the surface story of those who would seek truth and love.
However, for those that enjoy digging deeper, there is more to behold. There is an immense amount of social and moral commentary.
This is a book that approaches the divine without the fetters of This book is beautiful. This is a book that approaches the divine without the fetters of religion.
When one considers the era in which this was written, that in and of itself heralds the enlightenment of this author. Jul 28, Stephanie Ricker rated it liked it Shelves: historical-fiction.
I feel like I should be wearing a ruffly blouse and sipping hot chocolate while I'm curled up in a twilit drawing room while I'm reading it.
Why this is, I'm not entirely sure, but it has something to do with the incredibly flowery prose, doubtless.
Dec 29, Stuart rated it really liked it. I expected to read fifty pages, tire of the florid, overwrought meditations on beauty and mortality, and return it to the library, but to my surprise Zanoni may well be one of the best books I read this year.
Worth a read for the number of times things are described as "starry", also worth a read if you're familiar or wish to become familiar with early British occultism.
Sir Bulwer-Lytton always claimed to have been most proud of this book and I have no reason to disagree with him. What Bulwer-Lytton has produced is a turgid gothic romance popular during the period.
Lots and Lots of exposition and little by way of dialogue, so it will not be the sort of book that modern genre readers will, most likely, enjoy.
I'm not going to outline the plot here, visit its Wikipedia page if you wish to see this, but what I will do is tell you the basic plot is that of a romantic Published in and set during the French Terror  this is NOT a Tale of Two Cities.
I'm not going to outline the plot here, visit its Wikipedia page if you wish to see this, but what I will do is tell you the basic plot is that of a romantic tragedy Having said the above, Zanoni is still a good, but not great, book within its tradition.
View 1 comment. This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. Below is the brief synopsis of the book with some side notes.
Unfortunately, the novel is written in a very prosaic Victorian English, a style, which modern readers might not have the time or the patience to read.
I would love to see a movie or a screenplay made of this story if it kept the original theme, message and esoteric tradition. Bulwer-Lytton, was a English aristocrat and Earl of Knebsworth.
Knebsworth remained open to the public. He was a pioneer historical novelist, and far Below is the brief synopsis of the book with some side notes.
He was a pioneer historical novelist, and far more meticulous in his research and accurate in his facts than his contemporaries.
The author was a member of the English Rosicrucian society, founded in by Robert Wenworth Little. This explains why he was so very knowledgeable in what we now call the Western Esoteric Tradition, and it is said that the famous French occultist Eliphas Levi came to England to visit him, although the tradition of secrecy that veiled these matters in those day was such that it is difficult to ascertain the cause of their meeting or what may have happened as a consequence.
The introductory chapter to the story of Zanoni recounts how the narrator, in his younger days, had been keen to become acquainted with the true origin and tenets of the Rosicrucian order.
In his search he visited an obscure bookshop in Covent Garden, where he met an old man who hinted that he might well enlighten him should they happen to meet again.
Indeed they do meet very shortly afterwards at the foot of Highgate Hill and the old man invites the young man to his house, in a secluded part of Highgate overlooking London, and instructs him in secret esoteric philosophy.
He tells that the Rosicrucian order still exist, but pursue their profound researches into natural science and occult philosophy in secrecy.
Yet however respectable and virtuous they might be, and ardent in the Christian faith, they are but a branch of another more transcendent, powerful and illustrious Order that derives from Plato, Pythagoras and Apollonius of Tyana.
On the death of the old man he bequeaths to the narrator a manuscript in cipher that turns out to be the text of the novel "Zanoni". It is described by its anonymous author as a romance and yet not a romance.
The old man, referring to the works of Plato, has already explained that there are four stages for the soul in its return to its first state of happiness in God.
The first is music, the second mysticism, the third prophecy, and the fourth love. And it is upon this outline plan that the story of Zanoni is constructed.
Zanoni divides into seven parts, which are entitled: 1. The Musician, 2. Art, Love and Wonder, 3. Theurgia, 4.
The Dweller of the Threshold, 5. The Effects of the Elixir, 6. Superstition Deserting Faith, 7. The Reign of Terror. This last section is an evocation of the French Revolution, along with Bulwer-Lytton's close adherence to fact, in which the occult adept Zanoni goes voluntarily to his sacrificial death in an attempt to save the innocent from the guillotine.
He was born a star and fire worshipper in ancient Chaldea, and so is some years old, his occult powers having enabled him to avoid the ravages of time He is one of only two members of a great ancient esoteric Order who survive.
The other initiate is named Mejnour and he, choosing a different path from Zanoni, may presumably still be living to this day.
Whilst all this may sound fantastic, the esoteric status of Zanoni and Mejnour is much akin to that which is accorded by latter day occultists to Masters of the Wisdom, and what Lytton has to say about these Adepts predates by some forty years the celebrated Mahatmas of Madame Blavatsky or the Secret Chiefs of the Golden Dawn.
The heroine of the novel is Viola, a young Neapolitan girl, ignorant and uneducated but a supremely gifted singer. Its hero Zanoni, the master of mystic and prophetic arts, loves her for her youth, innocence and musical gifts, although his co-initiate Mejnour remains wedded to the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake - looking upon human love as a weakness rather than a strength.
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Selected filters. Updating list Reviewed October 2, via mobile Tasty dessert. Date of visit: October Date of visit: August Date of visit: July Miyoko G.10/2/ · Order food online at Zanoni & Zanoni, Vienna with Tripadvisor: See 1, unbiased reviews of Zanoni & Zanoni, ranked # on Tripadvisor among 4, restaurants in Vienna/5(2K). Gelateria Luciano Zanoni GmbH am Lugeck 7, Wien Tel: +43 (1) 79 79 E-Mail: [email protected] DATENSCHUTZERKLÄRUNG. Zanoni Designer Second Hand. 53 likes · 55 were here. Designer Second Hand // Contemporary Vintage // Premium Damenlabels // Berlin Schöneberg // Ankauf & KommissionFollowers: