To open “The Lesser Key of Solomon: Goetia” is to step into a room where two very different centuries are arguing in the same voice. On the one hand, there is the late–medieval and early–modern Catholic imagination, full of angels, devils, brass vessels, and the terrifying sovereignty of a single God who “created Heaven, and Earth, and Hell, and all that is in them contained.” On the other, there is the early twentieth century, with its half–ironic occult revival, its interest in psychology, its hunger to turn ancient ritual into a modern technique. The result is a book that is at once manual, myth, and mirror – a work whose influence is immense, whose content is often dry, and whose real subject may be less the demons it catalogues than the human mind that invokes them.
Formally, “Goetia” is presented as the first book of the larger “Lemegeton”, a compendium of Solomonic magic. This volume concerns itself with seventy–two spirits said to have been bound by King Solomon in a brazen vessel and released in exchange for service. Around that mythic core, the text constructs an intricate architecture of ritual. The operator is shown how to mark out a magical circle, how to inscribe a triangle where the spirit must appear, how to fashion pentagrams and hexagrams, rings and seals, all of them surrounded by divine names. There are conjurations for calling, conjurations for constraining, escalating curses to be applied if the spirit delays, and at the end, a formal welcome and a scrupulous license to depart. This is not a book of stories in the ordinary sense; it is a sequence of instructions and speeches, each designed to situate the reader in a very definite place in a very particular posture: inside the circle, facing the unknown.
The most immediately striking thing about “Goetia” is its voice. The conjurations move in rolling cadences that feel biblical even when the language is plainly post–Reformation. The exorcist “invocateth, conjureth, and commandeth” the spirit by a chain of names that begins in familiar territory – El, Adonai, Elohim, Tetragrammaton – and then drifts into those strange vocables that only grimoires seem to produce: Anephezeton, Primeumaton, Agla, On. Yet for all their flourish, these speeches are curiously legalistic. The magician is forever reminding the spirit that it is bound by ancient precedent: by the names which turned the rivers of Egypt to blood, by the name that caused the sun to stand still for Joshua, by the name that destroyed Bel and slew the Dragon. The tone is not one of intimate mysticism so much as of prosecutorial rhetoric. God is the Judge; the conjuror is His attorney; the spirit is the reluctant witness being dragged to the stand.
That tension – between devotional language and instrumental purpose – is one of the most interesting things about the book. On almost every page, the operator confesses smallness and sin, appeals for forgiveness, and declares that all work is done “as an instrument in Thy hands.” At the same time, the ceremonies are clearly designed to control, constrain, even torment the spirits if they resist. The “Spirits’ Chain” curses the disobedient entity to the abyss until the Day of Doom, unless it appears immediately in a fair and comely shape. The “Conjuration of the Fire” calls upon the created flame to burn the spirit’s seal in a stinking box suspended over coals, so that the spirit itself may be tormented by proxy. The “Greater Curse” envisions a lake of fire and brimstone for any being that won’t answer questions politely.
For a modern reader, there is something unsettling here that has little to do with the nominal subject of demonology. The magician’s God is both loving and terrifying, a deity whose mercy is invoked in the same breath as eternal torment. The magician himself is both humble and strangely entitled, insisting that all power belongs to God while treating angelic and demonic beings as functionaries who must yield treasure, knowledge, or services on demand. One can feel the echo of older legal and social orders in which hierarchy is unquestioned, even within the invisible world. For contemporary sensibilities that are wary of coercion, those passages will either be passed over as historical curiosities or read as a cautionary tale about what it means to drag other beings – whether literal spirits or aspects of one’s own psyche – into fixed, instrumental roles.
The core of the book, though, is not the rhetoric of the conjurations but the catalog of the seventy–two spirits. Each entry gives a name, a rank, a description of the form in which the spirit appears, and a list of offices: what it can teach, reveal, or accomplish. A king arrives riding upon a pale horse, with a leopard’s body and a bull’s face, speaking in a harsh voice until constrained to take human shape. A president comes as a great bird with the tail of a hare and paws like a lion, who procures the love of women and answers questions of hidden treasure. Another spirit appears as a lion–headed soldier, another as a serpent with a virgin’s face, another as a dog–headed man. Each governs a certain number of legions, each has a certain jurisdiction: philosophy, love, theft, book–learning, mechanical arts, the changing of men’s minds, the giving of dignities, the finding of things lost.
Read straight through, this section is less a gallery of horrors than a kind of occult gazetteer of human hopes and anxieties. The powers promised are, almost embarrassingly, familiar. We want knowledge of the past and future. We want to be loved, feared, admired. We want rank and riches, protection from enemies, mastery of arts, the ability to travel, to vanish, to discover what others have hidden from us. We want, above all, some advantage over time: to know what is coming, to undo what we have done, to recover what is gone. One can see why later interpreters were tempted to read the “spirits” as psychological personifications rather than external entities. The desires they serve are ordinary; it is the language that is strange.
“Goetia” itself encourages, in places, this inward reading. The prefatory “initiated interpretation” suggests that the demons may be understood as “portions of the human brain” – patterns of fear, appetite, and imagination which can be personified, invoked, and controlled only when named and ritualised. The elaborate preparation of the operator – the bath and the linen robe, the girdle inscribed with divine names, the anointing of temples and eyes, the recitation of psalms – looks, from this angle, less like a set of arbitrary taboos and more like a technique for inducing a particular mental state. The circle and triangle, too, can be seen as diagrams of attention: a way to mark off the self from the contents of the mind, and to insist that whatever arises must stay within a defined space, appear in a tolerable form, and answer clearly. Even the threats and curses take on a new cast when directed inward. How many times does a person swear that this fear, this compulsion, this habit will be cast into the abyss forever, only to find it again at the edge of the circle?
Yet the book never wholly abandons its literal frame, and that is part of its power and part of its limitation. The language of brass vessels, angelic kings of the cardinal points, planetary intelligences, and angelic choirs gives “Goetia” an imaginative richness that more stripped–down psychological manuals lack. One is reminded that human beings do not only want techniques; we want stories in which to place our techniques. At the same time, the grimoire’s refusal to step outside its ritual persona means that the curious reader is given little in the way of explicit commentary. There is no clear instruction on how to integrate the results of a working into ordinary life, no discussion of discernment, no warning about projection. The apparatus is baroque; the guidance is minimal. The serious student will have to bring their own philosophical and ethical framework to bear.
As a reading experience, divorced from any intention to practise, the book is uneven. The first third – the diagrams of the circle and triangle, the preparation of the other magical requisites, the sequential conjurations and curses – has a kind of grim momentum. You can feel the ritual tightening, step by step, from the first polite invitation through the invocation of the spirit’s King, into the threat of chains, fire, and oblivion, and finally out into the negotiated welcome and gentle license to depart. The middle portion, listing spirit after spirit, is less dramatic. There is a certain hypnotic pleasure in the repeated formulas, in watching small variations introduced into the descriptions and powers, but it is also easy to drift. The final explanations – of the divine names, the two triangles, and Solomon’s triangle – are oddly touching, as if the book were suddenly going out of its way to reassure the reader that all of this elaborate machinery rests on simple prayers: God is the beginning and the end; God is asked to be present, to protect, to direct; the names that look like barbarous syllables are, in fact, nothing more exotic than “Come here, appear human, speak clearly, show what you keep, answer all questions faithfully, and then go in peace.”
This duality – a surface of fearsome complexity covering a handful of very ordinary wishes and requests – is everywhere in “Goetia”. It is part of what gives the book its lasting fascination, and part of what makes it so easy to parody. There are moments when the tone tips, unintentionally, into the absurd, as when the operator threatens to consign a refractory spirit to everlasting fire while standing in a chalk circle in his linen robe, muttering doggedly through yet another page of names. There are other moments when the grandeur works, when the invocation of the sea of glass and the four beasts full of eyes, or the image of the brass vessel sunk under the sea, opens a small window into an older religious imagination in which the invisible world is crowded and perilous, and the act of naming is a serious thing.
For a contemporary reader who has come to the book through its reputation – through its echoes in popular culture, in fine press editions, in occult forums – there will probably be a measure of disappointment simply in the mismatch between myth and document. “Goetia” is not a gothic narrative of pacts and hauntings. It is closer to a technical dossier compiled by a church lawyer with an interest in astronomy. But if one can accept that mismatch, the book does have a peculiar integrity. It does not pretend to be anything other than what it is: a record of one strand of Western ritual practice, with all its assumptions laid bare. It takes the existence of spirits, angels, and a sovereign God for granted; it assumes that the human operator can stand, through grace and preparation, as a small but real agent in that larger economy; it believes that words, gestures, and symbols, repeated in the right way, can shape the traffic between worlds.
Whether one shares those assumptions or not, reading “Goetia” today is a way of asking what we do with our own unmanageable contents. We may not believe in the demons of the brass vessel, but we still wrestle with compulsions and fears and desires that seem, at times, to have lives of their own. We may not invoke Michael by name, but we still talk about “setting boundaries,” “holding space,” “integrating the shadow.” To see those concerns in a different vocabulary is not only historically interesting; it can be quietly instructive. The magician who draws a circle and insists that nothing may cross it uninvited is not so far from the person who decides that certain intrusive thoughts will be acknowledged but not obeyed. The magician who spends pages insisting that the spirit must answer “rationally” and “in our mother tongue” is doing, in a melodramatic way, what we do when we try to translate our inchoate impulses into clear, analysable language.
In the end, then, “The Lesser Key of Solomon: Goetia” is best approached neither as a handbook to be followed slavishly nor as a quaint relic to be dismissed with a smile, but as a document of how one culture tried to think about power, fear, desire, and the invisible. It is uneven, at times oppressive in its repetition, at times unexpectedly moving in its piety. It is not a comfortable book; it is not an easy one. But it still has the capacity to unsettle and to clarify, to show us how much of what we call “interior life” has always been imagined at the edge of a circle, facing something unknown and demanding that it speak. For me, that makes it a serious if flawed work, one I would place at about 71 out of 100 – not a universal recommendation, but a worthy, if austere, companion for readers willing to stand in that circle for a while and listen.