Alchemy

In dealing with the subject of alchemy, it is important to avoid two extremes in interpretation. On the one hand, the view of alchemy as a purely mystical or psychological pursuit is to be avoided, and so too is the opposed view that alchemy is a simply material pursuit, being a precursor to modern chemistry. Both of these extremes have their virtues, and they both have been well defended, but in fact, a better view is more of a composite. Alchemy is best seen as both a material pursuit and as a mystical pursuit, each of which received different degrees of emphasis from different alchemists and different schools of alchemy. Such a view approximately follows the suggestion of Lawrence Principe and William Newman in their "Some Problems with the Historiography of Alchemy," who, having criticized various interpretations of alchemy, say, “A factor common to these interpretation is their tendency to separate alchemy from ‘science’ or natural philosophy” (Secrets of Nature 417) and, “A common failing of the interpretations critiqued in this chapter is the depiction of alchemy as a uniform and constant monolith” (419). Here, then, it behooves us to consider alchemy in terms of general, but not necessarily universally consistent elements, in much the way that an decent depiction of Gnosticism may be provided in general themes, but in both cases, a complete understanding requires a detailed look at the individual instantiations of the phenomenon, which will not by any account be done here.

It seems appropriate to consider the material element of alchemy first, since if anything can be attributed to alchemists across the spectrum, belief in the transmutability of metals is an excellent candidate. First, though, it is important to consider the philosophical and scientific framework that gave rise to such a belief. The most obvious candidate by which to explain the transmutability of metals is Aristotelian hylomorphism, in which the distinction between matter and form play a central role. For Aristotle, matter is identified with potentiality, and it is actualized by form, as we read in his Physics (191b27-29) and his Metaphysics (1050a15-16). Thus the matter that is actualized as your body could just as well be actualized as that of Queen Elizabeth or even a wall at Buckingham Palace. This also meant that the matter that made lead could just as well be actualized as gold, and so we have the perennial alchemical fascination with the transmutation of base metals into gold.

Now there is the methodological question of how such a transmutation could be accomplished, especially considering the technological limitations placed necessarily on the alchemists. A very important process of transmutation came in two stages. The first sought to change some base metal into prime matter (or something near enough), which was supposed to be undifferentiated, formless matter, and hence pure potentiality. Of course, the obvious thing to do with prime matter is to give it a valuable form, that of gold. This first stage was certainly the simpler of the two, as it was perfectly possible to create what many an alchemist believed to be prime matter. One had only to soak a base metal in certain solutions, many of which would now be designated as sulfide solutions, and it would lose its differentiating qualities and become a black sludge. This was supposed to be very close to prime matter, lacking any color, since black was considered to be the privation of color, and lacking any apparent spatial form. This prime matter, then, was subjected to the second stage of transmutation, which in effect sought to imitate the formation of gold in the earth in order to actualize the properties of gold in the base metal. For this process to make any sense at all, however, attention must be given to certain other alchemical ideas, and then this second stage may be adequately described.

Another idea of Aristotle common among alchemists was the vapor theory found in the Meteorology (378c). On this hypothesis, metals originate from exhalations of the two vapors, one moist and the other dry, in the earth. Many alchemists carried this further. Metals are conceived by the union of these vapors in the earth, and there they progress through gestation from the basest metal, lead, to gold. Here we see some Neo-Platonic influence, applying the cosmic gradation of being to a gradation of metals, of which there were believed to be seven, which in turn carried astrological associations with the seven planets: lead, tin, iron, copper, mercury, silver (which is associated with the moon, or Luna), and gold (which is associated with the sun, or Sol). The maturation of metals in this way was a teleological view about the perfectibility of metals, which is perhaps the clearest manifestation of the hierarchical thinking that permeated alchemical thinking. In addition to the Neo-Platonic hierarchy, we can also get a glimpse into the analogical thinking that is quite common to alchemists. There is first the reproductive view of the vapors copulating to create the metals, and in addition we see the concept of the earth as a mother to the metals, being pregnant with them through the gestation that perfects them into gold, ascending the Neo-Platonic hierarchy.

Calling forth another analogy, it should make sense that the second stage of transmutation involved imitating the conditions of the earth’s womb in a laboratory-like setting in order to bring about the desired change. Taylor’s The Alchemists details four necessary conditions for gestation and hence transmutation: “a seed, a soil, the breath of life from heaven and the gentle fostering warmth” (18), which are surely derived from Aristotle. The near-prime matter is the soil in which the seed of gold is planted under the proper astrological influences kept warm by a constant fire. All this is quite analogous to the growth of vegetation, including the fact that this “seed of gold” and not gold itself was required. This second stage of transmutation, from obtaining this “seed” to ensuring that the “breath of life from heaven,” made the alchemical enterprise of transmutation far from a resounding success, and those claiming to have had success in some degree or other tended to follow the traditional writing style of the alchemist: symbol upon symbol upon allegory. That alchemical writing is esoteric and opaque is certainly no secret.

Regarding such symbolism allegory, though, we can see the spiritual and psychological sides to alchemy. First and foremost, there are the common Christian allegories that we can easily see in the latter description of transmutation. The base metal with which the alchemist begins is the human soul, tainted by sin and hence imperfect. Just as the base metal is destroyed, the “old man” (Rom. 6.6) is put to death in Christ. The second stage of transmutation corresponds to resurrection. The prime matter is perfected into gold, and so the soul’s resurrection in Christ brings it to perfection. Alternately, we may simply see the correlation to Christ’s resurrection into his glorified body. Historically, such assertions regarding alchemy were common in the West, especially providing an important apologetic for such a practice as alchemy in the context of medieval Catholicism. Alchemy was not presented as a greedy pursuit, a charge easily leveled against an individual who spends his time trying to make gold, and especially not as fraudulence, two charges that Chaucer memorably leveled in “The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale;” rather, alchemy was a spiritual pursuit by which the alchemist could draw closer to God (or more Neo-Platonically, the One), along the lines Chaucer seems to draw in the “Second Nun’s Tale,” thus differentiating between material and spiritual alchemy. Indeed, both were obviously practiced throughout the history of alchemy, but as was said in the beginning, the degree to which either was practiced is rather dependent on what individual alchemist or alchemical school is under investigation, and that a view of extremes does not accurately capture the broad historical landscape of alchemy.

This distinction, however, is often argued to have at last been realized in the nineteenth century, when modern chemistry took off with the physical side of alchemy, while mysticism and occultism retained the spiritual view of the subject. Certainly, there is some truth in this, as can be shown in the occult-influenced psychological readings of alchemical texts and symbolism by Carl Jung. If indeed such a split occurred, then we can trace on the one hand the development of modern chemistry from alchemy, just as well as we can trace Jungian analysis of alchemy through nineteenth century occultism directly into the psychological picture of the field. For Jung, “alchemists were concerned less with chemical reactions than with psychic states taking place within the practitioner” ("Some Problems" 402). Instead, an alchemist was “projecting” the content of his unconscious mind, his “shadow” onto the matter with which he worked, and the esoteric writings of the alchemists with their symbolism, supposedly involving archetypal images, are in fact “irruptions” of the collective unconscious. On the Jungian scheme, it is important to note that the material processes involved in alchemical practice are totally irrelevant, and any attempt to decipher what alchemical texts might be referring to in that regard is to be avoided. Indeed, says Jung, if such a correlation can be drawn, then the alchemist must be a “bad alchemist,” since he is describing chemistry in an obscure way rather than his psyche (403). Jung’s view, of course, is beset with problem after problem, from various assumptions involving Jung’s occult background to outright error (being able to draw unacceptable, legitimate chemical descriptions from some of Jung’s favorite examples of genuine alchemy) and even dishonesty (the Solar Phallus Man) among Jung’s examples (404-405). The important thing, though, is that Jung’s view is a continuation of the mystical tradition, especially in light of his comments likening the psychoanalyst to the alchemist, to be placed alongside the parallel chemical tradition in alchemy.

Of course, what these dual offspring of the alchemists, chemistry and spiritualism, mean is that alchemy was neither just a precursor to chemistry nor mere mystical nonsense, but rather it was composed of some well-developed natural philosophies as well as a set of unique brands of spiritual or otherwise mystical thinking, though this is stated rather pluralistically. Following the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, being faced by the onslaught of the Enlightenment and especially Newtonian science, at which time historians have had much trouble differentiating between alchemy and chemistry, what we have in reality seems to be a rather different distinction. This period is not to be read as the transition from alchemy to chemistry, and certainly during this transition it is fruitless to try to differentiate rigidly between alchemists and chemists, but rather this is better viewed as the splintering of alchemy into an absolute divide between its varieties, and the alchemists of this age simply reflected the transitional phase, making classification difficult. This is the most appealing way to view alchemy in general: a pluralistic gradation of two intertwined traditions of material science and spiritualism, which split absolutely by the nineteenth century. This is why it is so important to look closely at alchemists in order to get past such a vague definition—pluralism alone demands it.

General Bibliography

Aristotle. The Complete Works of Aristotle. Revised Oxford Translation. Jonathan Barnes, ed. Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey: 1984.

Taylor, F. Sherwood. The Alchemists. Barnes and Noble Books, New York: 2004.

Principe, Lawrence and William Newman. "Some Problems with the Historiography of Alchemy." Secrets of Nature. William Newman and Anthony Grafton, eds. The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts: 2006.