When it comes to searching for philosophical-magical inspiration from pre-Christian times, many occultists look at Plotinus and Proclus, two of the most important among Plato’s successors. After Plato, they are the most noteworthy representatives of Platonism, and if Platonism is up your alley, as it is right up mine, you’ve probably looked into them.

Proclus, who was one of Plotinus’ successors as head of the Academy, and was also the last noteworthy Platonist, is especially popular among those who seek inspiration for magical work. The reason is that, unlike Plotinus, Proclus did have a strong interest in religious and magical practices as well as being an important philosopher.

My personal preference, though, is Plotinus. I discovered his work, the Enneads, in my late teens and read it all throughout college. Unlike Proclus, Plotinus was a pure philosopher, with no interests outside of philosophy. Yet his writings have inspired many generations of theologians, occultists, hermeticians and devotees.

Writing at a time when Christianity and other early odd religious beliefs held sway, Plotinus managed to single-handedly revive philosophy as an exalted pursuit that connected the mind with the divine realm. Although he did not appear out of nowhere (his predecessors at the Academy had already laid the groundwork), his genius does tower over anything and anyone who lived in his time.

Plotinus had the aspiration to simply explain Plato’s work, and as a matter of fact we often find assertions in his writings that he is doing nothing more than saying what Plato has already said. But this is not true. His philosophy sought to coherently explain the whole of reality starting from the initial unity, and to trace the steps that mortals can take to re-experience that unity in their ascent back to the One. Although one could argue that the same aspiration is present in Plato, and especially in his esoteric doctrines, the two philosophers are still very much distinct, as is to be expected, considering how many centuries separate them.

From a philosophical standpoint, Proclus is not a cipher like some others of Plotinus’ successors. In fact, he was a gifted philosopher, who would have probably contributed much more, had he lived a couple of centuries earlier. Yet most of the innovations he introduced in the Platonic doctrine feel like complications rather than meaningful developments. His (over)zealous attempts at systematizing and consolidating the entire wisdom of the Greeks, from religion to philosophy to magic, may appear impressive at first, but soon one realizes that they are just the last ossification of the dying world of classical antiquity.

His systematic fervor, so appreciated by Hegel, finds a neat little place to everything that the Greeks had produced, yet at the cost of sucking them dry of their lymph. Everything is there–the gods, the beliefs, the art, the spirituality, the science of the time–yet only as an empty husk, as a relic with a tag underneath in an intellectual museum.

What many occultists today admire in Proclus is his commitment to theurgy. And from that standpoint, Proclus is definitely an important source of inspiration for us. Yet even that was a product of the crisis of the Greek worldview and of Proclus’ spiritual weakness (or rather, of the spiritual weakness that was typical of his time).

Plotinus, still firmly rooted in the Greek tradition, had no place for rituals. Union with the divine was certainly the aim of his philosophy, but his method was and remained that of philosophy, that is, pure inner moral, intellectual and spiritual cultivation. It’s not that he didn’t believe in the gods or in magic. He simply thought the method of philosophy was superior.

But by the time Proclus came to prominence, the old Greek confidence in the sole power of the human mind had crumbled under the attacks of early Christian or Christian-inspired irrationalism. Everywhere Proclus looked, people were scrambling for a source of salvation outside of themselves, because they felt small and powerless in an uncertain world. Come to think of it, we don’t live in much different times today.

Nothing that belongs to history can ever be retrieved and applied 1:1. But it is certainly permissible to look for inspiration. From a philosophical standpoint, there is no contest: Plotinus’ philosophy is still very much alive, if one knows how to get to its pulp, how to work with it, where to trim, where to add, where to change a part. By contrast, Proclus’ philosophy feels rigid, like a sculpted sarcophagus lid trying to capture the likeness of the dear departed.

From a magical standpoint, one would think that Proclus, given his interest in the topic, would have more to offer than the scoffing, eyebrow-raising Plotinus. Yet a look at Renaissance magic, heavily inspired by Plotinus’ philosophy, tells us otherwise. In fact, though Plotinus’ Enneads are a challenging text, the reader often comes across evocative bits full of beauty and wonder that may be easily adapted to prayer, ritual and other magical aims.

The fact is that Plotinus’ philosophy is a living thing that captures something universal, so it is a good framework for other pursuits, including occultism, while Proclus tried to supplement philosophy with magic because he had no confidence in it, so even his view of magic is remedial and somewhat desperate.

I do not mean to be overly critical of Proclus. He did what he had to, given the circumstances he found himself in. Plus, there is much in his work that can be salvaged, if one has the patience to wade through the abstractions. But what one cannot get from Proclus, or at least what I cannot get from him, is the sense that the cohesive picture he presents is still alive, whereas Plotinus’ system is considerably harder to recontruct, and less cohesive than Proclus’, but feels animated by a flame that was alive before him, was alive in him and will be alive forever.

MQS