Robert Graves was a pagan. He did not like Christ, nor the philosophers Athens honoured in their death: nor the mos moriaram of the Romans. He wanted Dionysian abandon, debauchery and witchcraft. He may be modern and not of the Edwardian age, but he looked back at Arts, Crafts, and saw Byron as a model to follow.
He thought that by being mad and bad he would become dangerous. However, he was not. It is his followers, particularly in science fiction, who are a threat to those with imagination.
And the White Heresy that of Jungian Race Memory is either false, or will be a witness for two generations that read Graves or his minions and forgot their duty.
All saints revile her, and all sober men
Ruled by the God Apollo’s golden mean –
In scorn of which we sailed to find her
In distant regions likeliest to hold her
Whom we desired above all things to know,
Sister of the mirage and echo.
It was a virtue not to stay,
To go our headstrong and heroic way
Seeking her out at the volcano’s head,
Among pack ice, or where the track had faded
Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:
Whose broad high brow was white as any leper’s,
Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,
With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.
The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir
Will celebrate with green the Mother,
And every song-bird shout awhile for her;
But we are gifted, even in November
Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense
Of her nakedly worn magnificence
We forget cruelty and past betrayal,
Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.