Bezpłatny fragment - SAGRADA PRINCIPLE

“It is not a disappointment that I will not be able to complete the Temple. I will grow old, but others will come after me. What must always be preserved is the spirit of the work; its life will depend on the generations that will pass on this spirit and bring it to life.”

Antoni Gaudí. Adaptation

INTRODUCTION

Everyone admires the Barcelona church Sagrada Família, designed by Antoni Gaudí and recently completed. There will always be some critics who do not like it, but they are certainly few in number. As for myself — for quite some time now I have belonged to the former group.

Nevertheless, I am certain that after reading what I have to say about this subject, the number of admirers of this building will change. Whether there will be fewer or more of them is the least important matter. I would like there to be as many as possible, but if their number decreases, then so be it — it is not quantity that matters, but quality.

While reading these words, dear reader, you are probably wondering whether it is at all possible to change an opinion about this church once it has already been formed. However, if you calmly, without unnecessary excitement, reach the end of this book, you will come to conclusions on your own that will radically change your perception of the importance of the message contained within Gaudí’s monumental masterpiece.

At this point, I would like to immediately emphasize one very important, even fundamental piece of information, which will constantly serve as the motto of my personal dissection of the work of the main protagonist of this story. Until now, I had never been an admirer of everything connected with the city — Barcelona, the region — Catalonia, the buildings — Sagrada Família and his other works — or even with the creator himself, the person responsible for this entire “commotion.”

Until now, I have not been, and probably never will be, a lover of this city or this region, for reasons that are entirely personal and, one might say, organic. Moreover, I have never visited this city or this region, and whether I ever will remains to be seen. I am a “devoted” admirer of another city and another region of this country. Which one? I will speak about that elsewhere.

So why, then, am I dealing with a subject that is not particularly close to me, that is not necessary for me in any practical sense, and that — for the reasons mentioned above — I approach with a certain degree of detachment?

The reason does exist, and it is such an enormously important reason that I put aside all those miasmatic and insignificant matters connected with this city and region, because the thing I would like to tell all of you who are reading these words is so momentous that my “hands tremble” at the thought of explaining it to you here and now in some sensible way.

While writing this, I already have a general concept of what will constitute the essence of my story, but I am constantly wondering how to present it to you in a way that is digestible and understandable, without falling into the labyrinths of carelessness or ignorance.

Therefore, in this personal pilgrimage through the most important “corners of Antoni Gaudí’s soul,” I will make use of the biography of this Barcelona genius of architecture written by Przemysław Słowiński.

I am convinced that even without this rather interesting biography I would have been able to deal with this subject — I had already had a general idea of my personal approach to this issue beforehand, but from the factual point of view, his book is a very valuable substantive supplement.

At this point, I would like to emphasize very clearly that it is only and exclusively a supplement and in no way is it some poor imitation or plagiarism of Gaudí’s biography. It merely provides the basis for my own approach to the subject, within the principles of the right of quotation.

All right, but returning to the subject of my personal interpretation of this monumental work of Antoni Gaudí, I would like to include one more very important piece of information in this introduction. I have decided to give this book the title: “SAGRADA PRINCIPLE” — which is a very important and extremely significant clue leading — this time — not so much to the hidden corners of my soul, but, more importantly, to my previous creative work.

One might be tempted to say: in my literary achievements, but I would not describe my writing in such lofty terms. I do not even dare compare myself with the greatest geniuses and artists of this craft. I am merely a humble worker, only an amateur of the written word, but I will nevertheless leave something behind me, and whether it is something worthy of attention or any kind of interest — it is not for me to judge.

One thing is certain about what I do — I do it as well as I possibly can. I create and write to the extent permitted by my abilities, but I write these books in order to bear witness to the truth.

Perhaps this is not enough; perhaps I have made inaccuracies or mistakes many times. Yet there is so much sincere and genuine dedication in it, a dedication that has accompanied me for more than twenty-five years, that, as I believe, it will overcome any potential critical voices.

I do not care what the final result of my work will be, just as that Barcelona architect did not care how superficial and amateurish the assessments of his creations made by his contemporaries would be. He — because he is the one we are talking about here — did not concern himself with the opinions of the inhabitants of the Catalan capital at that time.

Nor did he care about the opinions of the people who commissioned his designs for successive buildings. He designed and built what he wanted, what resonated within his soul, what he most likely saw himself in his multicolored visions.

And this is the fundamental criterion that also guides me. It is the purest of the pure truths that I follow — to bear witness to the truth. The truth about what was once known, but today is not necessarily well understood. More than that — everything concerning Antoni Gaudí’s work is, in fact, in a dramatic way, completely misunderstood.

I have no proof of this, but in my opinion nobody today — perhaps a hundred years ago there was someone to whom he confided his thoughts — even in their boldest imagination realizes, not even to one percent, what kind of genius works we are dealing with.

It is obvious that, in accordance with the title of this book, Gaudí’s most important work today is the highest church in the world, and my attention is focused primarily on this building. However, the other objects designed by him are also worthy of attention.

They are a peculiar and complementary addition to his plan. I repeat — PLAN. A plan to create encoded information about something truly exceptional, something truly spectacular, which can only be compared with the greatest achievements of human ingenuity, with the ancient Egyptian pyramids at the forefront.

For obvious reasons, I do not mention all these artifacts — it would take up too much space, as this is, after all, only the introduction to the book. However, anyone familiar with my previous bibliography will easily recognize what other examples of human creativity exist — examples that, before I decoded them, had remained hidden in the darkness of ignorance and misunderstanding.

But that is not the point. I mention this because I intend, gradually, whenever the appropriate moment comes, to recall fragments of my previous studies. They will concern particular issues related to Gaudí’s work and, formally speaking, will constitute a factual supplement to the subject being discussed.

I believe that this is everything most important that should be written as an introduction to this book. I hope that everything that will appear further on, in the individual chapters of these pages, will serve as a stimulus for the most radical conclusions — both for each reader individually and for all readers collectively. As for myself, my conclusions materialized quite recently — just before the date of the solemn inauguration and consecration of the Tower of Jesus Christ (10 June 2026), when this event was widely reported in the media all over the world.

And finally, I would like to present a suggestion which, in my opinion, rises to the level of a claim: namely, that what everyone refers to as the Tower of Jesus Christ and, for obvious reasons, the entire church of Sagrada Família, is not what it is commonly believed to be. But I will tell you all about this in the following parts of this book.

Chapter I                            Antoni

At the beginning of the main part of this book, I would like to point out that my method of narration will be very specific. In accordance with the art of writing, it will be a third-person narrative, but at the same time — and this is where my reservation lies — it will be an omniscient narrative. Not in the sense that I possess knowledge about everything and everyone, but I have found on the internet a very good definition of the type of narration I have in mind. It is a way of telling a story in which “the narrator knows the thoughts, feelings, and motives of all the characters.”

Let me reassure you — this is only a definition, and I have no intention of convincing anyone that I, the person writing these words one hundred years after Gaudí’s death, know the thoughts and feelings of all the figures from that period. That would be an obvious absurdity. Nevertheless, I have a feeling — bordering almost on certainty — that I know the thoughts, feelings, and motives of the main spiritus movens behind this entire “commotion.”

This is an extraordinarily bold thesis, additionally unsupported by any specific evidence, but by comparing Gaudí’s life story with my own, I will attempt to demonstrate, at least to a minimal extent, that such a correlation does indeed exist.

Almost everything is already known about the life story of the Barcelona architect. However, when it comes to my humble person, only I myself can speak about my own life, and for this very reason proving this thesis will be an extremely difficult task — but not an impossible one. I hope that as the course of this story develops, everything will become clear on its own.

At this point, however, I must add that, as far as the details of my own biography are concerned, I will leave them outside the main current of this narrative, while emphasizing the essential points of contact with Gaudí’s life story. This is because the issue is not about complete similarity, but about a principle.

“Paradoxically, the birth of Gaudí’s art is connected with his illness. From early childhood he suffered from rheumatism and, instead of attending school, he spent his time at home observing the surrounding world. It was precisely because of this that he developed an extraordinary imagination, thanks to which, as an adult, he was able to create groundbreaking architectural designs. Many years later, he formulated these experiences in his own definition of art: ‘There are no accidents in nature. Every plant develops in a way that is functional for it.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, pp. 10–11.

Once again, I will repeat the most important message at this stage: this is in no way about my own person, but solely and exclusively about the statement that I potentially know Gaudí’s “thoughts, feelings, and motives.” In my own childhood there were also periods of illness — admittedly only periods — but when it comes to everything else, meaning attending school, in my case it was usually “an uphill struggle.”

To make this clear — I was not sitting at home being bored, but the number of days I spent at school definitely differed from the norm. That is the first point. As far as imagination is concerned, I certainly do not lack it — the proof of this is everything that I have published so far as an already adult person. That is the second point. And finally, I too formulated my own definition — not of art, but of something else, equally groundbreaking.

All right, let us assume that this was indeed the case — and what can possibly result from this fact? Well, it can lead to many very interesting conclusions. There is one of them that is worth mentioning already at this point. I believe that Gaudí’s imagination — the one formed during his childhood — had a very important second layer, a hidden dimension.

In order to explain this in some understandable way, I must refer to a fragment of my earlier book, where this issue was presented quite thoroughly. The quotation below comes from my debut book, Gloria olivae, and will serve as the foundation for all the subsequent conclusions that I intend to gradually present in this book.

— — — — — — — — — — — —

“Hormones determine the different male and female organization of the brain during its development in the mother’s womb. […] This process, literally changing the mind of the developing individual, is the result of the same phenomenon that determines other physical changes — the action of hormones […]. The level of this hormone during this period is four times higher than the level it will reach throughout the entire period of infancy and childhood […]. A rapid increase in the male hormone also occurs at the crucial moment of development of the male individual during puberty […]. The influence of hormones on the brain is twofold […]. Boys do not perform particularly well during the first years of schooling. However, with the arrival of puberty, they accelerate dramatically. IQ test results increase rapidly between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, while girls’ results tend to remain at the same level and sometimes even decline.”

Quote: Anne Moir, David Jessel, Brain Sex.

If what Moir and Jessel write is true — and so far I have not encountered any other opinion on this matter — then their conclusion concerning the deterministic role of genes and hormones, and especially testosterone, in relation to the brain (which in turn influences sex), constitutes the starting point for explaining the essence of this chapter.

I am as far as possible from diminishing female IQ, nor is my intention to create antagonism between women and men. The reason why I highlighted these particular sentences, rather than others, was solely and exclusively the desire to emphasize the fundamental influence of testosterone — not only on a clear increase in intelligence, but also on a certain extremely important “side effect” of this process.

As scientific research indicates, the adult human brain is capable of producing new neurons. We know that during fetal development and puberty the most important stimulators of this process are hormones — mainly testosterone, which in turn has an inseparable connection with physical activity (the intensification of neurogenesis in individuals with a high level of movement has been confirmed by experiments with mice).

Furthermore, as I have tried to demonstrate (using bonobos as an example), prolonged maintenance of sexual arousal leads to sustained activation of the sympathetic nervous system. Physiologically, such a state resembles prolonged physical exertion by increasing the body's metabolic activity. Only after the arousal subsides does the parasympathetic nervous system become dominant, initiating the body's regenerative processes.

Whether this is achieved through direct stimulation (masturbation), whether the intermediary of this stimulation is the imagination of a woman (the “Venus” figurines), whether it results from abstaining from ejaculation (the entire issue of the “Sibyl”), or whether it occurs through yoga exercises — whose “qualities” are extremely diverse (a state of mystical ecstasy) — all of this has considerable significance.

Incidentally, this extremely shameful, yet in certain situations natural stimulator — so effective among bonobos and, of course, among humans — masturbation, is not observed only in these two species, which differ so greatly in terms of IQ. If we examine the remaining species of mammals, it turns out that whales (dolphins, humpbacks, whales) and elephants, as numerous pieces of evidence indicate, behave similarly to bonobos (of course, in a much more symbolic manner).

Their intelligence and social bonds are directly proportional to the amount of time they devote to these “indecent” forms of stimulation. From all this emerges another interesting conclusion. Human beings, or rather the creature from which humans evolved, owe their position at the top of the animal kingdom to the benefit of accelerated neurogenesis, whereas the “intermediate stages” of the evolution of life on Earth — animals — have remained at their respective levels. This is the unbreakable consequence of the logic of evolution and the exogenous imperative of Providence to which we are subject.

Returning, however, to the highly intriguing “side effect” of neurogenesis, it is the entire sphere of issues connected with the “brain antenna,” the opening of the “third eye,” “visions” on the border between life and death, and the phenomenon of epiphany experienced by the first patriarchs — these are tangible proofs of the existence of the Self.

If we were to compare this entire “menagerie” to the course of a river, then the intrusive and disastrous in its consequences “looking behind the curtain” I would describe as the extreme banks of this river, where the current of water slows down and where leaves, waste, and ordinary mud accumulate.

However, this “divine impatience” can only be compared to a dangerous and raging current, where the one who swims through it faces nothing but sacrifice and hard work. This “distinction” is not something unpleasant to the heart of each of them. Sometimes, however, the wickedness or carelessness of the “swimmer” ends with “drowning.” By following the “Chinese message” and acting according to the teachings of Pythagoras, Moses, or Buddha, we will sail calmly in harmony with our destiny.

As I mentioned earlier, God the Creator, wishing to accelerate or change the course of our proverbial river — this time the river of history — does so through what, metaphorically speaking, may be called the “brain antenna” (neurogenesis — the influence of testosterone). This manifested itself, for example, in Abraham, Buddha, and others. Jesus and his mission represent the most perfect expression of such influence of the Creator upon His work — the human being.

From Anne Moir’s book we know that neurogenesis in humans reaches its peak during the fetal stage and adolescence. When reading the Gospel of the New Testament, we learn that Mary, the wife of Joseph, conceived Jesus through the power of the Holy Spirit (Luke 1:35 and following), and that when Jesus was twelve years old, he taught in the Temple of Jerusalem (Luke 2:42 and 2:52).

Chapter V clearly confirms the thesis that one should not treat literally, word for word, that which is contained in these deliberately encoded books. If we accept that the Essenes and the first Christians were two different “incarnations” of the same group of people, then we must also accept that the New Testament should be interpreted symbolically rather than literally.

This follows undeniably from the “secret knowledge” of the baptismal sects. From all this it follows that when the authors of the Gospels wrote about the influence of the Holy Spirit upon Jesus, they had only one intention in mind: to convey information about the “influence” of God the Creator upon human beings — during the fetal period and during maturation.

The fact that this was conveyed to us through such a story — and not another — concerning Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist, and Mary, the mother of Jesus, in no way diminishes the dignity of either of these women worthy of the highest respect. Nevertheless, nothing concerning their motherhood has confirmation in truth — the only truth comes from God (Revelation of Saint John, 22:18–19).

“The prophet was not an initiate, but a person especially gifted from birth in spiritual matters, a person who heard the voice of Yahweh and proclaimed to people what he heard. Certainly, there existed many prophets, as well as people whose words became part of Holy Scripture. What united them was the conviction that they had been individually chosen as instruments of the spirit of Yahweh — they did not become seers through participation in a ritual or initiation, but were directly chosen by God. As Jeremiah says: Yahweh directed His word to me, saying: ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you;

before you came out of the womb I sanctified you and appointed you as a prophet to the nations’ (Book of Jeremiah 1:5).”

Quote: Andrew Welburn, The Beginnings of Christianity.

Divine Providence therefore watched over Jesus — he was already a prophet from the moment of his conception, while direct contact and influence upon his actions (through the “brain antenna”) by God the Creator took place during two crucial moments of the “male biography.”

But are there truly only two such turning points? Anne Moir argues that there are. I, however, claim — and the example of “almost” all men who have reached middle age serves as evidence — that there are not two, but three such moments. Admittedly, each of them occurs with a different intensity and each has a different purpose. This middle age of a man, when, according to the proverb, “when the head turns grey, the backside goes wild,” when after a period of reproduction in accordance with nature (20–30 years), the blood once again begins to circulate faster — this is the famous age of forty — a turning point, a boundary between youth and old age.

This phenomenon undoubtedly has both sociological and physiological causes, and the main “culprit” responsible for this “second taking off into flight” is testosterone. And it is precisely thanks to this hormone that the “side effect” of neurogenesis is also possible — namely, the possibility of direct contact or influence of the Creator upon His work — the human being.

“The number 40, representing fullness, plays a particularly important role in the Bible. Moses’ stay on Mount Sinai lasted 40 days, as did Christ’s stay in the desert.

Noah’s Ark also floated upon the waters for 40 days and nights during the Flood. Forty was also a significant number of years — the Jews spent 40 years wandering through the desert, while the reigns of David and Solomon also lasted 40 years.”

Quote: Miranda Bruce-Mitford, Illustrated Book of Signs and Symbols.

The question therefore arises: why does the number forty play such an important role in the Bible? And can it have any connection with Jesus? Indeed, it can — and a fundamental one. Considering the significance this number has for human beings, the answer suggests itself.

It is known that Jesus was actually born around 6–7 BC. Therefore, if Jesus, receiving the final initiation — baptism in the River Jordan — and later following the path along which God Himself guided him, was 33 years old, then the sum of these years indicates that at the moment of his ultimate destiny he was precisely 40 years old.

Is this forty from the Bible a fact or a symbol? And here comes another “interesting” number. In ancient Egypt: the four walls of the pyramid and the pyramidion, four slabs and the roof in the relieving chambers of the Pyramid of Cheops.

In Greek philosophy: the four elements — air of Anaximenes, fire of Heraclitus, water of Thales, earth of Democritus, and the sphairos of Empedocles. Doctrine of the Four Noble Truths and the nirvana of Buddha. Chinese theory of the five elements — where four referred to relationships within the family and among friends, while only the fifth concerned the relationship between the ruler and his subjects.

All sacred mountains with clearly shaped four sides. The Slavic deity Zbruch Idol — a four-sided limestone pillar covered with reliefs and crowned with a common hat. The mandala — the four sides of the square inscribed within a circle, where overlapping triangles pointing upward and downward create a fifth element.

“Delphi — today Kastri, the seat of the famous ancient oracle of Apollo. Above the pronaos there was an inscription: ‘Know thyself’ and ‘Nothing in excess.’ In the adyton, apart from the tripod on which the Pythia sat, there was the famous stone considered the navel (omphalos) of the world, as well as a statue of Apollo and the sarcophagus of Dionysus.

Pythia — the priestess of Apollo who gave prophecies. Pythias were chosen by a college of priests and raised from childhood near the temple. During the act of prophecy, the Pythia sat on a tripod in the adyton of the temple, according to ancient belief above a fissure from which vapors emerged from the earth. It is more probable, however, that intoxicating incense was burned in the adyton, under the influence of which the Pythia entered a state of ecstasy and uttered loose words that were then used by the priests to create the text of the response.

Sibyl — the name for female prophets among various ancient peoples. Nothing certain is known about their names, number, or origins. Plato speaks of one, Aristotle and Aristophanes of several, while in the time of Varro ten were known.

Greek Sibyls were associated with the cult of Apollo and usually prophesied near his oracle. Roman and Hebrew Sibyls were also known — including Sabba, who was identified with yet another Babylonian figure.”

Quote: Piszczek, Z. (ed.). (1983). Mała encyklopedia kultury antycznej A–Z (5th edition). PWN.

The ability to give prophecies possessed by the Pythias was not caused by vapors rising from the depths of the Earth, nor was it produced by intoxicating incense. This state of rapture, exaltation, or ecstasy was, from the very beginning, a carefully thought-out and deliberately planned creation of the priests, who used these girls, and later women, for their own dishonorable purposes.

Human sexuality is of enormous importance, particularly the influence of testosterone on the brain and on the functioning of the entire organism. In my opinion, continuous stimulation of the reproductive organs results in prolonged activation of the sympathetic nervous system, accompanied by increased metabolic activity and enhanced cerebral blood flow. Together, these factors may create conditions that are conducive to the process of neurogenesis.

The natural brake restoring balance is ejaculation, after which the parasympathetic nervous system becomes activated — arterial blood pressure decreases, bodily tension is reduced, and testosterone levels fall, leading to a temporary decrease in arousal and the regeneration of the nervous system. Neurogenesis results from the action of factors that stimulate neural cells, particularly within the hippocampus—a brain structure that plays a central role in learning and memory. It is there that neural stem cells can differentiate into new neurons.

Neural stem cells can give rise to neurons in all regions of the brain, including the cerebral cortex. An average person who engages in sexual activity from time to time can be compared to water flowing out of a dam, lowering its level (reducing nervous system, tension and testosterone levels).

Increasing this level through continuous stimulation causes the water in the reservoir to overflow its edges — resulting in neurogenesis. However, from time to time these tensions are neutralized through procreation. Let us imagine what would happen if this state of tension — continuous sexual arousal — could be prolonged indefinitely and prevented from naturally subsiding through the activation of the parasympathetic nervous system.

I would compare such a state of constant tension to an enormous waterfall, which would not only cause neurogenesis but would ultimately lead the organism and the entire nervous system into ecstasy — exaltation and rapture.

Such ecstasy can only be compared with the orgasm that every “adult” reader (regardless of whether during sexual intercourse, stimulation, or nocturnal emission) has experienced. As we know, such climax lasts only a few or several seconds. The absence of such natural brakes may first create a stream, later a river, and finally a never-ending cascade of continuous sexual dissatisfaction, which ultimately leads to ecstasy.

What the consequences of such ecstasy may be can be seen precisely in the example of the priestesses of the Apollonian oracle. These girls, and later women, were not “raised” in those temples, but kept there like animals in a zoo and exploited by priests for the purpose of “predicting” the future.

“Delphi was inhabited mostly by small-scale money changers and sellers of religious souvenirs, exploiting the naivety of pilgrims. On a large scale, this exploitation was practiced by priests, who based their influence on a widely used information service serving political purposes.

The political influence of the Delphic oracle and the income flowing from it aroused in neighboring city-states the desire to gain control over the sacred territory, which ultimately led to the creation of the so-called Delphic Amphictyony, which, in defense of the sanctuary’s interests, waged three Sacred Wars.”

Quote: Piszczek, Z. (ed.). (1983). Mała encyklopedia kultury antycznej A–Z (5th edition). PWN.

It was not any form of prediction of the future, but — according to my reasoning — the effect of a special process of transforming the priestess’s brain into a “brain antenna,” thanks to which “observing God” became possible — that is, a “telepathic contact with the Self.” Same purpose was served by the deformation of human skulls by the “antediluvian man.” What was the outcome of this — we already know.

Let us notice that these “raised” girls could leave the temple only when their usefulness (a lower level of hormones) was no longer sufficiently great. These women had to submit to the discipline of sexual abstinence, which, in this general atmosphere of desire and sexual frustration, often resulted in masturbation and lesbian relationships — under these conditions it was something entirely understandable.

In order to extract paranormal abilities from the Pythias, they were isolated even from their companions in fate. Everything I write about here is of enormous importance for understanding the entire issue of human contact through the “brain antenna” — not with an old man with a white beard, but with an immaterial, infinite, undefined substance — the stream of thought — the Self.

Only through sexual restraint could the channels of the “brain antenna” connecting human beings with God become unobstructed. This was used by people of the “antediluvian era,” and also, more or less consciously, by priests of all civilizations, cultures, and religions — from the priests of Sumer, Egypt, China, and Africa (Zimbabwe), to those of both Americas (the Anasazi, Hopewell, Maya, and Inca peoples).

To list them all would require more pages than this book contains; therefore, so important is fragment 71 of Heraclitus’ writings: “One must keep in mind the man who forgets where the road leads.”

These are all those who misuse the secrets entrusted to them by God (“looking into God”) for material gain (the Delphic priests), out of curiosity (experiments with NDE), or in order to satisfy the desire to possess knowledge that may become an instrument of power.

What does this lead to? Madness or a “flood.” Could it not instead be a “river flowing peacefully in its natural current” — a slow and natural increase in the level of intelligence (neurogenesis), as has been happening until now?

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Well, enough of these quotations for the time being. They have probably introduced a considerable degree of disruption into the flow of a narrative that has thus far dealt with a decidedly different subject. What could everything contained in the two quotations above, taken from another book, possibly have in common with the biography of Antoni Gaudí's early years? This is a question of fundamental importance, because the answer may have far-reaching consequences.

It is now time for the first conclusions. I believe that Gaudí's exceptional aesthetic sensitivity and extraordinary imagination were already shaped during his childhood. What were the reasons for this? The quotations presented above attempt to explain it. However, to understand the issue more fully, I would add that these qualities were, in my opinion, a consequence of the illnesses he suffered during childhood, which became the catalyst for the remarkable development of his imagination.

This did not happen by itself, nor was it simply the result of remaining indoors and gazing out of the window. Rather, it should be understood in connection with the process of neurogenesis that takes place during the development of the young brain.

At the same time, it should be linked to the genuine isolation and social withdrawal that, in a symbolic sense, resembled the solitude of the ancient Sibyls associated with the Oracle of Apollo.

For understandable reasons, this is a highly controversial hypothesis to advance. Nevertheless, the fact remains that it was during those years of youthful solitude that the artistic potential of the architect from Barcelona took shape. In my subjective opinion, there is yet another important piece of this puzzle — namely, his psychophysical profile.

I cannot be entirely certain what Gaudí's actual psychophysical profile was. However, based on the available evidence, I believe it is possible that some of the difficulties he experienced may have been associated with characteristics that today are linked to milder forms of Asperger syndrome (formerly often described as high-functioning autism).

Such characteristics are often difficult to recognize because people who possess them generally function well in everyday life. Nevertheless, they may experience subtle difficulties in social interaction and communication, which are frequently concealed through what is known as masking.

This is merely the prologue to the story of Antoni Gaudí, and therefore I will not yet develop this subject into more detailed conclusions. The subsequent stages of his biography may provide further evidence for considering his psychophysical profile. This is also an appropriate moment to emphasize a possible similarity that may connect the central figure of this book with its author.

By this, I refer primarily to my own limitations in interpersonal skills — or, more precisely, to the difficulties I have experienced in that area — although this is not the principal subject of the present discussion.

„The cradle of great people is often a humble home. Antoni Gaudí was born into a family with a long tradition of craftsmanship. His earliest documented male ancestor in Catalonia was a man named Joan Gaudí, an immigrant from Auvergne in southern France, who earned his living in the 1630s as an itinerant merchant in the Camp de Tarragona region. […]

It was there, in Riudoms, that Joan met the beautiful Maria Escurà, who also had Provençal roots, and in 1634 he married her. […] Most of the descendants of Maria and Joan became farmers, but the future architect Antoni Gaudí was born into a family that, on both the paternal and maternal sides, descended from a long line of coppersmiths. In 1843, his father, Francesc Gaudí, born in Riudoms in 1813, the son and grandson of a coppersmith, married Antonina Cornet i Bertran, who, like him, was the daughter and granddaughter of coppersmiths.

It was a respected profession, and those who practiced it cultivated a strong guild spirit and, in a sense, followed a tradition of endogamy.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudí, Videograf, 2014, pp. 42–43.

All of Gaudí's direct ancestors were craftsmen. This suggests that artistic inclinations and, for obvious reasons, higher education were rather unexpected within his family. It seems reasonable to assume that, given his family background and occupational traditions, the young Gaudí would most likely have become a craftsman himself.

One may argue that this was not inevitable, since exceptions always occur. Today, such exceptions are common — parents” education and social background no longer determine a child’s future. More than a century ago, however, this pattern was far more typical.

To what, then, should we attribute his remarkable artistic inclinations and the level of intelligence that ultimately produced such extraordinary achievements? I believe that, in attempting to answer this question, one should take into account both the solitary (Delphic) dimension of his childhood and the exogenous influence of transcendence acting upon his still-developing mind through the processes associated with neurogenesis.

Once again, this is a bold hypothesis unsupported by direct empirical evidence. Yet, as the well-known saying from the Gospel of Matthew reminds us: „By their fruits you shall know them.” Why have I introduced this episode from the biography of our central figure? Simply because it allows me to present a different epistemological perspective.

Not everything in this world can be explained exclusively through reason and scientific methodology. There also exists an entire sphere of experience and understanding that lies beyond the reach of strict analytical investigation. It may be described by many different terms: intuition, inner experience, insight, contemplation, mysticism, spirituality, consciousness, transcendent experience, or symbolic cognition.

It is worth adding that I myself experienced circumstances of a remarkably similar nature. Like Gaudí, I came from a family in which neither my parents nor my earlier ancestors possessed higher education or any discernible artistic interests. One would search my family history in vain for anyone connected with artistic pursuits. Yet, somehow, after years of what I regard as an intellectually barren education, I experienced a form of „awakening.” Instead of spending my life solely in my manual profession, I began writing books. Whether those books are good or mediocre is beside the point. What matters is that I do not regard this transformation as a coincidence, but rather as the result of the same endogenous and exogenous factors that, in my opinion, shaped Gaudí himself.

„In the new Gaudí-Cornet household, fate brought more tears than joy from the very beginning — two of their children died in early childhood. Yet the old saying goes: „There is a time for tears and a time for joy, a time for sorrow and a time for celebration.”

Their youngest child, Antoni, was destined to outlive his parents and capture the imagination of people on five continents. The Gaudís” first child, a daughter named Rosa, born in 1844, was in poor health. She lived to the age of thirty-five. Their second daughter, Maria, was born in 1845 but died in 1850. That same year, their third child, a two-year-old son named Francesc, also passed away.

Their fourth child, another son who was likewise named Francesc, was born in 1851. He was expected to become the family’s great hope for the future, but this hope was never fulfilled. Although he completed medical studies, he died at the age of twenty-five. Their fifth child, Antoni, born in 1852, was frail and sickly from birth. In the mid-nineteenth century, high infant mortality was not unusual in European households. Even so, the loss of four children within a single family was far from commonplace. It is easy to imagine the profound impact such repeated tragedies must have had upon the atmosphere within the Gaudí household.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudí, Videograf, 2014, p. 44.

I have included this quotation for a specific reason: to emphasize the profoundly solitary nature of the young Antoni and the constant awareness of life’s fragility that must have influenced the development of his mind. As I argued earlier, quoting passages from my book Gloria olivae, such experiences may have contributed to the growth of his intellectual potential.

At this point, I must immediately mention my own family home. It was remarkably similar. I, too, am the youngest child in a large family, with one important difference: the horrifying mortality that afflicted the Gaudí family spared ours. As in Gaudí's case, our family also lost its „great hope for the future,” although this happened later in life. According to current scientific research, the oldest children in large families tend to have higher IQs, whereas the youngest are more likely to be creative, sociable, and willing to take risks. This is not an absolute rule, but it may well have applied to Gaudí. It also applied to my own family. An interesting observation.

„The first year of study with the Piarists cost young Antoni Gaudí many tears and much effort. He failed several examinations and received poor grades in some subjects. Geometry was the only field in which he excelled…”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudí, Videograf, 2014, p. 54.

My report card from the final year of primary school was far from impressive, while the one from my second year of secondary school was extraordinarily poor. Not to mention the fact that it took me an exceptionally long time to complete secondary education. This was not because I was a hopeless educational case, but because my mind had entered a period of complete stagnation, and I simply had no desire to study.

„A natural consequence of Antoni’s poor health was that he was often unable to play with his peers. This strengthened his powers of observation. […] Whenever he felt well enough, Antoni enjoyed taking long walks outside the town to examine the ruins of old Roman smelting furnaces. […] The lonely Antoni quickly discovered a world of imagination that existed in harmony with the beauty and diversity of nature.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudí, Videograf, 2014, p. 55.

As for the author of this book, he too used to go on long walks. The fact that these excursions took place while all his classmates were attending lessons at school — well, so be it. In his case as well, imagination took priority over everything else.

„The years during which Antoni Gaudí struggled through secondary school were a period of prolonged social unrest and transformation. Looking back from the perspective of a century and a half, two or three of those events proved to be particularly significant.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudí, Videograf, 2014, p. 60.

It is truly astonishing how closely Gaudí's youth resembled my own. To avoid making an unsupported claim, I will mention only one fact, which should suffice as commentary. I attended secondary school during a period of prolonged social unrest that took place in Poland at the turn of the 1980s. The outbreak of workers” strikes in communist Poland (1980). The introduction of martial law, which crushed society’s hopes for democratic change (1981). The lifting of martial law, unfortunately without bringing any meaningful reforms (1983).

So what, dear readers, do you make of this unexpected correlation between Gaudí's biography and that of the author of this book? The next stage in the life of our main protagonist was his studies at the Escola Provincial d’Arquitectura.

„As a student at the Escola Provincial d’Arquitectura, Antoni Gaudí was by no means among its best students, although the knowledge he acquired there later became a solid foundation for his professional work. At the same time, his fascination with architecture was accompanied by extraordinary determination and independence. The school’s director, Elias Rogent, and other professors recognized Gaudí's unquestionable talent, although his combative personality did not always help him win friends.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudí, Videograf, 2014, p. 82.

I include this quotation, which describes another important stage in Gaudí's life, for a reason. As I have been trying to demonstrate throughout this chapter, most — if not all — of the earlier elements of his biography correspond, in a surprising way, with my own.

Of course, this may be regarded as a very unusual coincidence. Yet I must admit that ever since I first read Przemysław Słowiński’s book only a few days ago, I have remained genuinely perplexed by what I consider to be an extraordinary coincidence. Yes, unquestionably so. The final quotation provides another example.

It is not my intention to force both biographies into an artificial parallel, nor to manipulate the facts in any way. Facts, however, possess one important characteristic — they can be verified. Verification ultimately reveals either truth or falsehood, honesty or manipulation on my part.

To address any possible doubts regarding the truthfulness of my statements, I am prepared to support them with documentary evidence that I possess. For the moment, however, my readers must be content with my assurance that I am telling the truth — while naturally maintaining a healthy degree of skepticism. But what about this final quotation?

In my own life, after completing secondary school, there came a period of uncertainty concerning what I should do next. University studies were practically out of the question. Instead, the next stage of my education consisted of intensive vocational training.

I acquired formal professional qualifications that became the solid foundation of my future career. I did not have many friends either — but that has always been my way of life. Still, this book is not about me. It is about Antoni.

„For some time, Gaudí managed to avoid compulsory military service. Eventually, however, in February 1875 he submitted a request to the university authorities asking that his overdue examinations be postponed. The army could no longer be deceived… He was assigned to an infantry regiment. […] After passing his delayed examination in art theory, Gaudí returned to his studies. The academic year 1876—1877 would demand even greater effort from him.”

Source: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudí, Videograf, 2014, p. 87.

As fate would have it, I too, after attempting to avoid compulsory military service on medical grounds, was eventually called up and assigned to the military. Following my training at the Junior Specialists School in Dęblin, I was posted to the 6th Fighter-Bomber Aviation Regiment in Piła. Like Gaudí, I was approximately the same age — twenty-two years old.

Furthermore, my military service lasted exactly twenty months because of administrative adjustments involving graduating classes from that meteorological training school. Assuming that the academic year begins in early autumn — as it does today, in October — then the period between February 1875 and the beginning of the 1876—1877 academic year amounts to exactly twenty months. Perhaps I am mistaken? In any case, I possess documentary proof in the form of my military service record book.

„Several months later, in the summer of 1876, tragedy struck the Gaudí-Cornet family. On July 1, Francesc Gaudí i Cornet died suddenly at the age of twenty-five, before he had truly begun what promised to be a successful medical career. No record exists specifying the cause of his death. His mother soon fell gravely ill and, two months later, on September 8, died with profound sorrow in her heart at the age of sixty-three. Antoni struggled to cope with the overwhelming grief…”

Source: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudí, Videograf, 2014, p. 93.

Here we encounter yet another coincidence between Gaudí's biography and my own, although this time the parallel is less exact. It did not concern the „great hope of the family” at such a young age, nor did the events occur in the same order. I do not intend to develop this subject further, because it is too traumatic and too personal. With this profoundly dramatic moment in Antoni Gaudí's life, I would like to conclude the chapter devoted to his youth. It is precisely in moments such as these — when a person experiences suffering, loneliness, and loss — that his true nature is most clearly revealed.

Perhaps it is during such experiences that what the world later calls talent, vocation, or genius is ultimately formed. Are all the similarities I have presented between Gaudí's biography and my own merely a collection of accidental coincidences? Every reader has the right to answer that question according to his or her own convictions.

For my part, I believe that the number of these coincidences has become sufficiently large that it is difficult to dismiss them as insignificant. I do not regard them as proof, but rather as indications worthy of further investigation. In the chapters that follow, even more points of convergence will emerge. Only then will it be possible to judge whether we are dealing merely with chance or with some underlying regularity which, although difficult to capture through scientific methods, nevertheless leaves a distinct imprint upon human lives. It is precisely that imprint which I shall continue to pursue.

Chapter II                           Gaudí

The first chapters of Antoni Gaudí’s life can be compared to the foundations of a building. They are not yet visible to a passer-by, yet everything that will later emerge depends precisely on them. Illness, solitude, difficulties at school, modest origins, the atmosphere of the family home, and the dramatic experiences of youth — all these elements shaped the man who was only later to reveal his extraordinary talent to the world.

However, the similarities do not end there. On the contrary — I have the impression that it is only from this moment onward that they begin to form an increasingly surprising sequence of events.

Moving on to the subsequent stages of Gaudí’s biography, I will consistently juxtapose them with corresponding events from my own life. Not in order to prove that our lives were identical — that would obviously be an exaggeration — but because the striking number of analogies demands at least an attempt at explanation.

Is it merely a coincidence? Or perhaps there exist certain recurring patterns in human biographies, which become particularly evident in people gifted with above-average imagination? I do not know. What I do know, however, is that from this point onward the similarities become even more concrete and easier to verify.

The young Antoni completes the period of adolescence and enters adulthood. A time begins of the first independent decisions, the first successes, the first disappointments, and the first encounters with destiny. It is precisely this stage of his life that will become the subject of further reflection.

“On 15 March 1879 he defended his diploma thesis. However, he received the lowest grade awarded at the university. During the final examination, which he passed not unanimously but by a majority vote, Director Rogent uttered the memorable words:

— Gentlemen, we are standing before a genius or a madman.

— Well then, I suppose I am an architect — Antoni replied ironically.

Although he did not begin his career with a revolutionary upheaval, Gaudí quickly moved away from the established paths of the academic architectural style of his time.”

Quote; Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, p. 94.

I perfectly remember the moment when I decided to write my first book, the first two quotations from which I had already presented earlier in the first chapter. I also remember the enormous surprise and astonishment this information caused when I shared it with my closest ones.

Yes, undoubtedly, for a brief moment the same thoughts must have crossed their minds as those expressed in the words spoken by the director of the university Gaudí attended. Besides, is it really so important whether these thoughts were identical or not? What matters is that it was a complete surprise. Of only one thing can I be certain: I too approached it with irony at that time…

“He saw the need to carefully consider every detail of each project he undertook and to anticipate every difficulty that might arise in it, because laziness is a condition more intellectual than physical, and a master builder should not expect his workers to undertake the effort of thinking.

He also came to the conclusion that he could not fully trust books, quickly discovering inaccuracies, errors, or falsehoods. He often repeated: ‘Rarely does one find in a book what one was looking for, and when one does find it, it usually turns out to be an error.’ As a result, he ended up designing everything according to his own ideas.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, p. 99.

I feel somewhat uncomfortable including so many quotations from someone else’s book. Surely everyone who has reached this point is already overwhelmed by these pieces of information, to which I add my own commentary. Unfortunately, however, I am compelled to do so by the necessity of presenting facts from the most accessible source currently available to me — the book by Przemysław Słowiński. How else, than by presenting evidence confirmed by bibliography, can I refer to my main thesis concerning the identity between the biography of the Barcelona architect and the biography of the author of this book?

There is no other way to proceed, and therefore I must rely on the patience of my readers and continue to present specific, relevant fragments from the book, which at this moment is not only an invaluable source of knowledge for me, but even more — an excellent source.

As for this particular recollection concerning Gaudí’s creative working method, I can only state with astonishment, and at the same time with complete certainty, that my own method of selecting material used for my first book had a similar origin.

I would only add, for the sake of accuracy, that during my approximately four years of preparation and searching for appropriate bibliographical material, which I used to exemplify my reflections, I “dug through” a vast amount of literature and popular science journals from many different fields.

It took me so much time not because it resulted from my method of work, but because in order to document my main theses contained in the book accurately and reliably, I had to become familiar with an enormous “sea” of information, which I then had to carefully select, separating essential content from irrelevant material. The final sentence of the above quotation constitutes a kind of maxim summarizing my entire work on my debut book.

“After the death of his mother, Antoni’s sister Rosa became the only surviving female descendant of the Gaudí i Cornet family. She was the eldest and had been sickly from birth. She married — as mentioned earlier — a poor musician who had embraced a gypsy lifestyle and abused alcohol. It is unclear whether he was eventually destroyed by drink or whether one day he simply disappeared from the family scene. The first child is always burdened with the expectations of parents, and their disappointments are also focused upon that child. And Rosa Gaudí de Egea, surrendering herself trustingly to fate, died in 1979 at the age of only 35, leaving behind a three-year-old daughter, also named Rosa. The care of the girl could now be taken only by her grandfather Francesc and his son, Antoni, who was twenty years old at the time.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, p. 109.

This is another fragment from Gaudí’s biography and another set of similarities, differing only in details.

I have no intention of describing the nuances of my own family situation in excessive detail, because these are not matters meant for public dissection. I will say only briefly — the majority of information concerning Gaudí’s older sister corresponds with the general characteristics of my own living sister (may she live to be a hundred!).

“Love for a woman is the death of wisdom — says an old Persian proverb. A drop of love is worth more than an ocean of reason — stated the French mathematician, physicist and philosopher Blaise Pascal. […] Yes, yes, true love strikes a person like lightning, but often afterwards only a handful of ashes remain. This is exactly what happened in Gaudí’s case. It is possible that when Antoni proposed marriage to Josefa Moreu, this beautiful woman was still involved in a lengthy divorce process with her first husband, a certain Antoni Palau, who came from the seaside town of Calella, located about twenty kilometres north of Mataró.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, p. 114.

Again, I must reserve the right to keep these details private — one thing is important at this point: for me, this relationship was and still remains the most important relationship with a woman in my life. And nothing will change that.

The name of the town from which Josefa’s first husband came is particularly interesting… how remarkably similar it is to the actual place from the biography of the author of this book…

“In any case, Josefa, affectionately called Pepeta, was much younger than Gaudí and beautiful: slender, ‘with reddish-golden hair, almost mahogany in colour, of extraordinary beauty’ — as her nephew Enric Moreu-Rey described her. Her physical attractiveness was complemented by a dazzling personality, combined with elegant manners and a modern way of life. Josefa Moreu was an excellent swimmer and often displayed her abilities on the beach, which in those times — despite the fact that bathing costumes reached the knees — caused her to be perceived by the conservative part of society as a bold and shameless woman. In addition, she played the piano, could sing quite well, and knew French.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, pp. 114–115.

Everything contained in this quotation could be related to my former acquaintance (but I will not repeat it here for obvious reasons of discretion), with one difference, however: she was not much younger than me, and knowledge of a foreign language also differs somewhat from the truth — because in this case it concerns the English language…

“When Antoni began working independently, his financial situation improved. He started wearing well-tailored suits and smoking long cigars. He was well-built, of medium height, and his head resembled the heads of Roman emperors from busts that can be found in museums in Tarragona, Barcelona, or Paris. The lack of hair on his head was compensated for by a thick, closely trimmed beard surrounding his regular, rounded features. He possessed broad general knowledge, yet at first meeting he could more easily have been mistaken for a simple tinsmith dressed in his Sunday suit than for a cultured man.

Unfortunately, behaviour in company, elegant sitting down or folding a napkin, etc. — all of this was foreign to the son and grandson of urban craftsmen. Most often he behaved brusquely in social situations.

He was fully aware of this himself. ‘Throughout my life I have tried to control my character; usually I succeed, but from time to time it is stronger than me’ — he once wrote in his diary. Relations with women must have caused him enormous difficulties.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, pp. 116–117.

Most of the information contained in the above quotation concerns matters known only to the author of this book, and for this reason there is no way to verify them unequivocally — one thing alone is certain: I have never had a beard and I do not intend ever to grow one…

“At the time when his faith was rekindled, he suffered from painful ailments which became an impulse for his spiritual renewal. While carrying out the final works on the decorations of Casa Vicens, he was inspired by the desire to have his own family, and he expressed this desire in an inscription placed in the centre of the façade: ‘May this fire in the hearth burn with the bright flame of love.’ After several flirtations and an unsuccessful romance, this desire supposedly took the form of serious attempts to win the affection of a certain devout young woman who, at the last moment, decided to enter a convent. Gaudí was then 33 years old, and this bitter disappointment caused him to ultimately abandon the search for human love in favour of divine love and led him to choose a life of Christian celibacy.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, pp. 151–152.

Regarding the true motives behind Gaudí’s actions, all his potential biographers can only speculate.

I do not wish in any way to boast about this — almost phenomenal — “biographical closeness” with Gaudí, but I believe that the reasons behind his decision were entirely different, more fundamental than they might appear at first glance. It was certainly not about the trivial desire to satisfy so-called “masculine needs”, but rather about a direction of thought in which one can perceive the category of vocation — in a form structurally similar to the Christian vocation to priesthood. This is a significant moment in the interpretation of Gaudí’s biography and, for this reason, requires broader discussion.

The interpretation of the motives behind his life presented below is purely essayistic and speculative in nature. It represents an attempt to read his biography through my own model of the relationship between creativity, spirituality, and voluntary asceticism.

I do not claim that the motives described here were the architect’s actual intentions. Available historical sources do not allow for unequivocal conclusions. Every interpretation of his decisions — both traditional and alternative — remains a reconstruction rather than certainty. In this sense, the following text should be regarded as a hermeneutic proposal, not as a reconstruction of historical facts.

Antoni Gaudí’s life, in the common perception, appears as an example of the complete subordination of existence to a single idea: the construction of the Sagrada Família and the development of a unique language of organic architecture. In classical interpretations of his biography, celibacy is most often explained by three factors: deep religious faith, emotional disappointments, and complete dedication to creative work.

Each of these explanations has a certain descriptive value; however, none of them fully explains the radical nature of his life choice. Gaudí not only renounced family life — he completely transformed the structure of his existence into a system subordinated to a single work. This consistency raises the question of whether his decisions did not have a deeper foundation, resulting from a specific vision of spiritual and creative development.

In this interpretation, I assume that his celibacy can be understood not as simple asceticism, but as an element of a broader model of creative vocation, structurally similar to a priestly vocation.

In many religious traditions, celibacy does not mean merely renunciation of sexual life, but rather a reorganization of vital energy toward a single goal: contemplation, service, and concentration.

Analogously, one may hypothesize that Gaudí perceived his life as entirely subordinated to an architectural work that was not merely a construction project, but a form of materializing a spiritual vision. From this perspective, celibacy would not represent a negation of life, but rather its reconstruction in a single direction of meaning.

This interpretation is reinforced by specific facts from Gaudí’s biography. During the final years of his life, he almost completely subordinated his daily existence to the construction of the Sagrada Família — he lived in rooms connected with the construction site of the Sagrada Família, led a modest, almost ascetic lifestyle, regularly participated in religious practices, fasted, and limited his material needs. All of this can be interpreted as evidence of the consistent realization of a vocation in which personal life, religious faith, and creativity gradually merged into one whole.

In many cultures, we encounter the belief that voluntary asceticism increases the ability to concentrate and intensifies inner experience. Examples include priests of ancient Egypt, the Essene communities, the Pythagoreans, certain prophetic traditions, and later forms of Christian monasticism.

The common element of these systems is not abstinence itself, but rather the conviction that limiting the distractions of everyday life leads to an intensification of intellectual and spiritual life. In this sense, celibacy functions as a tool for organizing attention rather than as an end in itself.

Against this background, Gaudí’s decision can be interpreted as fitting into a broader historical model in which creativity and spirituality require the reduction of existential distractions.

Gaudí’s architecture — especially the Sagrada Família — is not merely a technical or aesthetic construction. It is a symbolic system in which form, light, and spatial structure create a coherent language of experience. From this perspective, his work can be understood as an attempt to transform material reality into a carrier of spiritual meaning — which constitutes only an introduction to a fuller interpretation of this Barcelona church, which I will develop in a separate chapter.

If we accept this interpretation, celibacy can be understood as an element of reducing psychological distractions, enabling a fuller concentration on a single existential project. In my view, one may formulate a hypothesis concerning a possible relationship between long-term sexual abstinence and creative concentration, although this hypothesis has not yet been unequivocally confirmed empirically.

My original hypothesis also assumes the existence of potential neurobiological mechanisms; however, due to the lack of sufficient scientific evidence, in this analysis I focus primarily on a functional and philosophical approach.

Gaudí, as a creator working on one dominant project for decades, fits into this model not in a biological sense, but in a structural one: his life can be interpreted as a process of gradually narrowing the field of experience in favour of the maximum intensification of a single creative direction.

In many cultures, we encounter the belief that limiting sexual and material life contributes to the development of particular forms of perception and concentration. Priests of ancient Egypt functioned within systems of ritual purity, Essene communities practiced strict discipline of life, Pythagorean traditions combined asceticism with learning and contemplation of numbers, while Sibylline and prophetic figures were presented as living outside the standard social order.

The fact that different civilizations — separated by time and space — developed similar models of ascetic life may testify to the existence of a universal anthropological intuition. In many cultures, voluntary restraint was associated with deepened concentration, contemplation, and creative insight.

In this sense, Gaudí’s celibacy can be interpreted not as an isolated biographical case, but as a variation of a broader and well-known model of “a life directed toward a purpose.”

An important element of this interpretation is also solitude, which in Gaudí’s case had not only a social character but also a structural one. Creative solitude does not merely mean the absence of relationships, but rather the reduction of the number of social roles, the limitation of contradictory narratives, and the stabilization of one dominant system of meanings. From this perspective, celibacy is not the cause of solitude, but one of its components.

Gaudí gradually transformed his life into a system in which architecture became not only work, but also a relationship, a form of expression, and a structure of identity. As his creativity developed, one can observe a process of reducing the multiplicity of life to a single existential project.

Sagrada Família, from this perspective, is not merely “Gaudí’s most important work,” but rather the existential centre of gravity of his life. All other aspects of existence — social, emotional, and material — gradually became subordinated to this direction.

Celibacy, solitude, the reduction of needs, and complete dedication to work were not separate decisions, but elements of one logic: the maximum integration of existence around a single project of meaning. In this model, private life loses its autonomy, social relationships lose their central position, the body becomes an instrument of work, and time becomes subordinated to the process of creation.

In this sense, his biography is not a story of renunciation, but a story of the maximum integration of existence around one work. The Sagrada Família becomes not only a temple, but also a record of life, a form of thought, and a material equivalent of the process in which an individual reduces the multiplicity of the world to one dominant meaning.

“Gaudí’s father lived long enough to see how the fantastic shapes created in the imagination of his only son became materialized in stone, and how these stones were placed one upon another, and how the towers of the Church of the Holy Family rose into the air, just like the cypress trees symbolizing eternity in the cemetery of Riudoms. Now he could finally say farewell to the whole world and depart peacefully. Francesc Gaudí i Serra, the old coppersmith from Riudoms, widower of Antònia Cornet, died on 29 October 1906, at the age of 93. The death of his father was not a surprise to Gaudí, yet he could not even imagine what a blow it would be for him until he knelt beside the coffin. For him, who had spent 54 years of his life almost continuously at his father’s side, it meant the loss of the most faithful companion of his existence, a friend in sorrow and misfortune.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, p. 195.

Once again, I am forced to radically limit my commentary concerning this fragment of the source text. The subject is too personal for any kind of speculation, because it concerns individual emotional experiences. In fact, they are astonishingly similar. The effects of my work were known and witnessed by my father, with whom I lived under the same roof during the last several years of his life, while equally astonishingly similar is the age of the person closest to me during that dramatically catastrophic period.

Bringing this stage of reflection to a close, I am aware that for many readers the number of analogies presented between Antoni Gaudí’s biography and my own life may appear surprising, and perhaps even unbelievable. However, I do not expect them to be accepted unconditionally.

On the contrary — I encourage the preservation of healthy skepticism. Each of the described similarities can indeed be explained as coincidence. It is more difficult, however, to regard as coincidence their accumulation, the order in which they occur, and the agreement in the overall structure of both biographies.

In this chapter, I have attempted to demonstrate that these similarities are not limited to individual events, but encompass successive stages of creative development. The beginning of independent activity, the manner of arriving at one’s own convictions, many years of work based on independent analysis of sources, family relationships, emotional experiences, the gradual limitation of private life in favour of creative activity, as well as deeply experienced events connected with the passing away of those closest to us — all these elements form a sequence of analogies that could not be omitted.

I do not claim that my life is a repetition of Gaudí’s life. Such a claim would be unjustified. However, I believe that both biographies reveal a surprisingly similar architecture. They differ in facts, historical periods, and circumstances, yet they show convergence in the way events develop, in the direction of the decisions being made, and in the process of gradually subordinating life to one dominant idea. It is precisely this correspondence of structure, as well as the identity of facts, that constitutes the subject of my further considerations.

Does this mean that timeless patterns of development of creative people exist? Do outstanding individuals, regardless of the era, follow similar paths, although their biographies are filled with different events? Or perhaps these similarities are merely a projection of the human mind, which, by its natural tendency, searches for order where in reality chance prevails? I do not intend to provide a definitive answer at this stage. The task of this book is not to impose ready-made conclusions, but rather to gradually build an argumentation.

Already in the introduction, I pointed out that the book would be conducted from the perspective of an omniscient narrator. This does not mean that I attribute omniscience to myself or the right to make infallible judgments. It concerns something much more subtle. The omniscient narrator, according to the classical understanding of this concept, attempts to penetrate not only the course of events, but also the motives, feelings, and inner logic of the actions of his characters. Only from such a perspective can one attempt to answer the question of why two biographies distant from each other demonstrate so many common features.

Therefore, in the following chapters I will not limit myself exclusively to presenting historical facts or describing my own experiences. Facts are only material from which one may attempt to reconstruct the deeper structure of human life. I am interested not only in what happened in the biography of Antoni Gaudí, but also why it happened precisely in this way and whether similar mechanisms can also be found in other biographies — including my own.

Perhaps it will ultimately turn out that all the analogies described are merely an extraordinary coincidence. Perhaps, however, they constitute a trace of the existence of a deeper order that we have so far been unable to properly describe. It is precisely the possibility of the existence of such a hidden order that constitutes the main hypothesis of this book. Everything that has been presented up to this point is only a preparation for the further development of this hypothesis.

Chapter III                          Antoni Gaudí

Two previous chapters may be treated as a kind of appetizer preceding the main course of this book. Their task was to prepare the reader for the fundamental problem which, from the very beginning, has constituted the actual purpose of my considerations.

First, it was necessary to present the man, then his biography, and finally to indicate the similarities between Antoni Gaudí’s experiences and my own. Without this, further analysis would be merely a description of architecture. Meanwhile, Gaudí’s architecture — in my opinion — was never exclusively architecture.

Before, however, we move on to the main course, there remains the first course — a kind of symbolic soup, without which the whole would be difficult to understand. This chapter will be precisely such a transitional stage. The reader will find here many hypotheses, intuitions, and attempts at interpretation which cannot currently be unequivocally verified by the methods of classical historiography. I am fully aware of this.

However, I do not intend to hide the fact that some of the conclusions presented here are based not only on the analysis of sources, but also on a personal interpretative perspective that has accompanied my work for many years. At this stage, I will not attempt to explain the mechanisms leading me to such conclusions. Perhaps there will be a place for this in a later part of the book. For now, I ask only that the following considerations be treated as a proposal for reading Gaudí’s work from a perspective different from the one dominating contemporary literature. From this point begins the actual decoding of the phenomenon of Antoni Gaudí.

This will not be an analysis that is solely architectural or historical. I am primarily interested in the language of symbols hidden in his works, the manner of organising space, and the possibility of the existence of a multi-layered message which the recipient often does not even become aware of while visiting his buildings. I assume, therefore, that Gaudí’s architecture functions simultaneously on several levels of meaning — from the aesthetic layer, through the religious one, to the symbolic one.

The natural starting point becomes the Sagrada Família — a building that is not only Gaudí’s greatest work, but also one of the most enigmatic architectural objects of modern Europe.

In many historical studies it is emphasised that the idea of constructing the temple was born within the environment of the Catholic Association of Devotees of Saint Joseph, whose aim was to oppose the progressing secularisation of Barcelona and to erect an expiatory temple financed exclusively through voluntary offerings of the faithful. Initially, it was precisely the figure of Saint Joseph who was intended to play the role of patron of the entire undertaking.

The deeper I analysed the symbolism of the Sagrada Família, the more often I had the impression that the official history of the construction of the temple does not explain all the elements of its iconographic programme. Questions appeared to which — at least in the studies known to me — I did not find satisfactory answers.

One such question concerns Saint Joseph himself. If it was precisely his cult that constituted the impulse for the beginning of the entire undertaking, why does his presence in the final symbolic programme of the temple appear to be much less emphasised than one might expect? Is this merely the result of the later evolution of the project, or was it a conscious action by Gaudí himself? At the present stage I do not determine the answer; I merely pose a question that will return in the further parts of this chapter.

In the following chapters, I will attempt to read the mysterious symbols of the Sagrada not only as those of a church, but also as a “text” written in stone. I will analyse symbols, proportions, the arrangement of towers, ornamentation, and architectural solutions, searching for their possible meanings. Some of the proposed interpretations will correspond with the findings of art historians, while others will have the character of original hypotheses. Each reader of this book will decide independently which of them to consider convincing.

From the first chapter I announced that the narrative of this book would have the character of an omniscient narrative — not in the sense of attributing infallibility to myself, but as an attempt to reach the inner logic of the actions of its protagonist.

“In the second half of the 20th century, in dynamically developing Barcelona, the pressure exerted by many groups towards the secularisation of public life became increasingly visible. This was especially pursued by workers, who were strongly influenced by various ‘red’ ideologies. It was a typical behaviour of people detached from their roots, who, instead of cultivating their faith and traditions, which provided them with support in a completely foreign world, renounced their own heritage. Local Catholics observed this process with great concern, even establishing, in order to counteract the ‘plague’, the Association of Devotees of Saint Joseph — the patron saint of workers (Asociación Espiritual de Devotos de San José).

Already in 1886, within the circle of people forming the aforementioned organisation, the idea arose to build a great expiatory temple on the outskirts of Barcelona, in order to atone to God for all the ‘abominations’ taking place in the city. Someone — it is difficult to determine who — proposed the Holy Family as its patron. According to the intentions of the initiators, the church was to be built without any state subsidies, financed exclusively by donations from the faithful… In 1881, the Association purchased a complex of houses then located on the outskirts of Barcelona. A church called the Sagrada Familia was to be built on the plot.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, pp. 158–159.

I am including this fragment from Słowiński’s book precisely at this point because it is important for this chapter. Through this quotation, I would like to indicate the subconscious function of the Sagrada Familia church itself, known, as I believe, both to Gaudí and to the author of this book.

I will repeat the fundamental question: why, if the idea of the Holy Family constituted the symbolic “cornerstone” of this church, were its patrons honoured in such a modest way, limiting their presence only to several figures on the façade? After all, Saint Joseph was the patron saint of workers, and the initiators of the construction were precisely his devotees.

Why, therefore, among the several towers that have been erected, was not even one dedicated to Saint Joseph? For now, I leave this question unanswered. There is no reason for concern — in the further part of this book I will attempt to explain it.

“In his youth, Gaudí was interested in magic and astrology, which — as we know — the Church rather forbids. At least once a week, spiritualist séances were held in his house — something that was strictly forbidden. Among the invited guests was the well-known Barcelona spiritualist Guanyabents. It is known that during Sunday mountain excursions organised by Barcelona’s elites, Antoni ‘experimented’ with Amanita muscaria — hallucinogenic mushrooms which he later immortalised on the small buildings at the entrance to Park Güell. The ‘altered states of consciousness’ obtained thanks to the mushrooms were later used by him in creating his unusual ‘plant-like’ architectural forms.

Also, in his works, Master Antoni did not always show love for the Creator. Immediately behind the famous gate of Park Güell, for example, he placed an alchemist’s furnace with the philosopher’s stone inside. The entrance to one of the park’s pavilions is decorated with dragons originating from the Atlantis of Jacint Verdaguer, from 1877. Under the mosaic depicting an inverted cross, Barcelona’s Satanists still gather to this day. In fact, on almost every building by Gaudí — if one looks carefully — one can discover various strange symbols used by Freemasons and Rosicrucians. Even on sacred buildings!

Sagrada Familia, when it is finally completed, at an unspecified time in the future, will be decorated — according to his design — with a six-pointed cross — a characteristic Masonic symbol. There are suppositions that Gaudí himself was a Freemason. However, this is generally regarded as a rumour, because it is difficult to accept that a man who built and restored church buildings with such devotion could have led a double life.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, p. 18.

At this point, I must interrupt this fascinating thread from the book of the author who serves as the source of my knowledge on matters related to the biographical details of the Barcelona genius, because I would like to strongly protest against these insinuations. Gaudí was in no way a Freemason, and the fact that he used this kind of symbolism for his own purposes is in no way a departure from his, admittedly quite specific, Faith. I write Faith with a capital letter because, in my opinion, his faith was extraordinary and beyond ordinary dimensions, and no one, even in their boldest speculations, could have suspected that his belief in God was unwavering.

This is again a very bold statement, additionally unsupported by any evidence. However, I have a serious suspicion, and even — after analysing many indications — a conviction that the situation was actually the opposite.

As for Freemasonry itself and Masonic symbols, this subject has, over time, become so greatly distorted by accumulated myths, simplifications and emotions that it is difficult even to attempt a calm interpretation. In the further part I will present my own point of view on this matter; however, at this stage it is far more important to understand the motives that could have guided Gaudí when placing these — as they were often described — “unfortunate” symbols.

Before, however, I move on to their interpretation, it is necessary to answer a much more fundamental question. It is the definition of the very concept of God. In the Christian tradition, and especially in the Catholic one, the answer seems obvious. It is based on Revelation, Sacred Scripture, Tradition and the teaching of the Church.

These are the foundations of faith which, for a believer, constitute a sufficient basis for acknowledging the existence of God. They do not require proof in the scientific sense, because faith by its very nature is not based on experiment or mathematical certainty, but on trust.

This is precisely where the essence of the problem lies. In my opinion, one should not seek Gaudí’s definition of God exclusively within the framework of traditional Catholic confession of faith. It was — as I have already mentioned — much deeper, more universal and decidedly more transcendent. This resulted from the reasons I wrote about in the first chapter, referring to fragments of my book Gloria olivae.

The question therefore arises: what was Gaudí really like? Did he believe in God? Was he a Freemason? Or perhaps was he an apostate from faith, a heretic?

My answer is unequivocal: Gaudí believed in God. However, I believe that his understanding of God went beyond common religious concepts and was based on the notion of a Transcendent Being — an absolute reality that is the source of all existence. The main factor shaping his approach to faith — a kind of impulse that directed it — was, in my opinion, celibacy. However, this is not the whole truth. There is also the issue of being chosen, the conviction of having a special mission entrusted to him.

In Gaudí’s case, one can speak not only of an ordinary choice of a life path, but of a sense of vocation. In his own understanding, it was not merely a personal decision or a consequence of life circumstances, but an experience of an almost spiritual nature — the conviction that he had been called to fulfil a specific mission.

In this sense, his attitude was not limited to the strict discipline of celibacy. There was also the dimension of an inner conviction regarding the meaning and necessity of carrying out a work which — in his perception — was not merely an architectural project, but a task of a deeper, even revelatory character.

Returning to the cause of these misunderstandings — Freemasonry — it would be necessary to organise our knowledge on this subject somewhat. Once again, I will make use of my extensive body of work and present my point of view on this matter. This will already be the second fragment from the book entitled Gloria olivae.

— — — — — — — — — — —

“Between 1307 and 1314, the ‘secret knowledge’ of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, both literally and figuratively, ‘evaporated’ in the fire of ‘holy indignation’. The title of this chapter unambiguously defines everything that happened afterwards; therefore, it would be naïve to expect any ‘ironclad evidence’. This obvious fact implies an entire sphere of ignorance, conjecture or ‘side paths’ onto which the Templars consciously directed various ‘seekers of lost time’.

Where and in what manner the Templars ‘anchored’ is no longer so important; one can only hope that their epigones, whenever they consider it appropriate (the cult of the Bird-Man should have considerable significance for this decision), will reveal their ‘genealogy’ to everyone.

Fundamental purpose of this book is to reveal the truth as it is, and not as it appears to us, and this truth is to be confirmed by unquestionable evidence, of which our ancestors left behind in abundance.

To achieve this goal, only the ability to decipher these traces is needed. So, precisely: can one conclude, based on the symbols behind which the Freemasons ‘veiled themselves’, that although humanity ‘fell asleep again’ with a great sleep, the ‘secret knowledge’ which it had once ‘tasted’ ‘did not fall asleep’?

The rituals and symbols hidden in the darkness of the Freemasons’ ‘labyrinth’ clearly confirm the main goal of the first conquerors of Jerusalem, defined in the previous chapter, which was the creation of the Kingdom of God through the strength of their own hands.

Here we have the ultimate proof of their good, although nevertheless zealot-like, intentions. For what else could all these masonry tools represent, if not the dream of good and honest people living in a world free from evil — tools through which, from individual ‘bricks’, properly shaped citizens of the future would create a gigantic ‘edifice’ of the Kingdom of God, into which God the Creator Himself would ‘move’, so that together with its builders He could enjoy the blessings of resurrection.

So what secret knowledge is hidden in the symbols of the Freemasons? The image of the Sun on the Apron of the Grand Master signifies the entire gnosis of the megacycle and the rebirth of life, while the Grand Master, sitting on the eastern side of the opened lodge assembly, paraphrases the life-giving role of the Sun. By inspiring new proceedings — similarly to the shadow of the Heel Stone each year on the day of the solstice (during sunrise) entering the interior of the Stonehenge circle — he inspires the creation of new life.

The formation of new people begins with the proper setting of the plumb line and the level, which newly admitted members of the craft should strive towards. The plumb line and the level are symbols of righteous and honest conduct as well as equality. With the remaining definitions, however, I would already enter into discussion.

“Freemasonry is the oldest male association in the world. Its members, Freemasons, form lodges headed by wardens and a master. The Craft, as Freemasons call their organisation, is concerned with ‘forming’ good people. Initiatory rituals, enabling the achievement of successive degrees of initiation, are connected with the symbolism of the biblical Temple of Solomon and the meaning of masonry tools representing the spiritual development of man.

Apron — the Masonic apron derives from the original working aprons made of lambskin used by medieval stonemasons. Aprons are richly decorated with symbols connected with the craft. On the apron of the Grand Master appears the image of the sun — just as the sun appearing in the east announces another day, so the Grand Master opens the lodge assembly by sitting on the eastern side.

Plumb Line — builders use this tool to determine the vertical alignment of walls. For Freemasons, the plumb line is a symbol of uprightness and honest conduct. It is also an emblem of the Junior Warden of a Masonic lodge. The Level — the level is used to arrange bricks evenly horizontally. In Freemasonry it is a symbol of the Senior Warden and represents equality.

Square — it is the emblem of the Master of the Masonic lodge. It is a tool that organises scattered elements, and therefore also represents the principles of moral conduct.”

Quote: M. Bruce-Mitford, Illustrated Book of Signs and Symbols, Warsaw 1997, p. 109.

Square is not only the emblem of the Master or a tool that organizes scattered elements, but something much more — it is a symbol of the human being in general. Recall, dear reader, what the Tabula Smaragdina says: “As above, so below; the stars above, the stars below. Everything that is above is also below. Blessed is the one who solves this riddle,” and now look at the emblem of Freemasonry.

Undeniably, it is the Star of David — the essence of “secret knowledge.” The square is a symbol of the human being of the future, the one who has been formed by the “vertical and the horizontal” and who will meet our Father in the Kingdom of God. If the square symbolizes the human being, then the compass can only be our Creator God. Although in this emblem the square is a triangle pointing downward, while the compass is a triangle pointing upward, opposite to the arrangement in the Star of David, the idea of God the Creator of man has nevertheless been preserved. With the compass, God measures (forms, creates) the human being — the Bible: “And God created man in His own image” (Genesis 1:27).

“The Emblem of Freemasonry — the basic tools of the stonemason, such as the square and the compass, constitute the principal symbols of Freemasonry. They serve the symbolic purpose of shaping better citizens. The Tracing Board — the principles of Freemasonry are explained to newly admitted members through special symbolic tracing boards. This board, on which the columns of wisdom, strength, and beauty are visible, represents the first initiatory degree of the Masonic community.”

Quote: M. Bruce-Mitford, Illustrated Book of Signs and Symbols, Warsaw 1997, p. 109.

Tracing Board — through which newly admitted members learned about the principles of Freemasonry — apart from its undeniable educational value, also constitutes a summary of “secret knowledge.” The directions of the world: north, south, east, and west, clearly refer to the four projections of the mandala and thus represent “information” about the four stages of humanity’s path toward the Kingdom of God (the four sides of the pyramid, etc.).

Sun on one side (the left side, as always) and the Moon on the other “represent” two opposing and at the same time complementary sides of the megacycle, while the all-seeing eye between them is, of course, our Father watching over everything. Apart from the vertical, the horizontal, the compass, and the level, the remaining elements of this board also possess their deeper meanings.

Checkered floor — the white and black squares symbolize the struggle between good and evil, but also, or perhaps even more, our good and bad will, our nature, which “hides” within each of us. On the floor lies the labyrinth of ignorance, in which the “sleeping ones” wander. The only way out of this labyrinth is the Temple of Solomon — meaning knowledge of the bronze sea — the Yam — and the two free-standing columns Jachin and Boaz.

Unworked stone represents the human being who has not yet been shaped, whereas the worked stone block on the opposite side symbolizes perfection — the human being of the future. The three columns symbolize the principle of three values: wisdom, beauty, and strength, manifested in the construction of Solomon’s Temple, but also, or perhaps more importantly, the three semicircles known from the Jewish candlestick — the Menorah — or from Plato’s Atlantis — namely: home, family, and environment.

Quintessence of secret knowledge is Jacob’s Ladder, which connects heaven and earth through its three main steps: faith, hope, and mercy, but it is also a synthetic representation of the entire process of humanity’s search for truth (already after leaving the labyrinth of ignorance). The first and fundamental step on this ladder is science. Anyone who would like to become initiated must first devote a great deal of time to becoming familiar with everything that all the symbols truly mean — symbols that until now they have looked at, but have not actually seen.

Open Book of Knowledge, the symbols of the Kingdom of God and the megacycle — two opposing forces, and between them the central point of this perpetual motion machine. The next step on this path is the highly symbolic key. What it means, every reader of this book surely already knows.

This key is the conclusion — and therefore the phallus — that is, the constant and conscious “engagement” of the parasympathetic nervous system, combined with the brain — the most important creator of the “intelligent human being.” Without knowledge of this “accelerator” of our evolution, a human being, like a ship without an anchor, would drift upon a stormy sea full of beliefs and illusions. The “anchor” keeps the “human-ship” in the pure waters of truth.

And finally, the last stage — the most perfect thing that can be imagined — namely the understanding of two seemingly mutually exclusive values: faith and science — Unity — absolute truth. Here is the entire secret of the association whose most important goal was the formation of good people, in the hope that when the time of humanity’s awakening arrives, they will stand in the first ranks of builders of a new society, becoming the “building material” of the Kingdom of God.

Ignorance and fear of this mysterious and supposedly dangerous organization, considered subversive to Christianity, have caused Freemasonry and everything connected with Freemasons to be repeatedly accused of all the evil in the world (conspiracies against the Church, wars, and so on), whereas the Craft, having learned by chance from its predecessors, does only one thing — “sleeps.”

— — — — — — — — — — —

Ignorance and fears associated with the secret character of this organization have caused Freemasonry and everything related to it to be regularly accused of all the evil in the world — from conspiracies against the Church to causing wars. Meanwhile, this is rather the result of overinterpretation and accumulated myths than of reliable historical knowledge.

Craft, which — as is often emphasized — originates from ancient guild traditions and learned through the experience of previous generations, neither conspires nor acts as a driving force shaping history. Rather, it functions as a symbolic and historical trace of former forms of work organization and ways of understanding the world.

This is precisely the essence of the entire confusion. Freemasonry and Masonic symbols are like a mosquito preserved in amber — they constitute a fossilized trace of the past, a fragment of ancient knowledge about the world that has survived into our times. The way in which they are interpreted and judged today is an entirely separate matter.

And this — in my opinion — is what Antoni Gaudí understood, which I will attempt to prove in the further part of this book.

“Some sources suggest that he was also a member of a rebellious tertulia — an informal discussion group that amused itself by insulting priests and mocking religious processions. Its members met in the infamous Café Pelayo. Tertulia is a term referring to a literary salon, but typical tertulias were held in public places.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, p. 87.

This is another argument revealing much about Gaudí’s “unconventional” faith. This is a fact (or rather a suggestion), but as a kind of counterpoint, below I present another quotation from Słowiński’s book, which clearly demonstrates some strange and unexpected spiritual transformation of our main protagonist. This information, contrary to appearances, is of great importance.

“From February to August 1887, Gaudí prepared drawings for the bishop. The history of their creation is quite extraordinary. Gaudí’s usual method consisted in directly examining the place and its topography. Due to other commissions, he could not travel to Astorga. Not wishing to delay the commission, he asked the clergyman to send photographs and information about the location, which would allow him to design the new palace. […] Gaudí spent hours discussing liturgy with Grau. The bishop encouraged him to read L’Année Liturgique (The Liturgical Year) by Prosper Guéranger, a French Benedictine, Servant of God of the Catholic Church, a restorer of religious life in France after its suppression during the French Revolution, and one of the initiators of the liturgical renewal movement.

For the artist, this was a key text, which he proudly placed on his bookshelf next to a copy of L’Atlàntida bearing the author’s dedication. Years later, he stated that this was probably the period that influenced his professional life. Researchers of Antoni Gaudí’s work also believe that it was Joan Grau i Vallespinos who inspired the architect’s growing commitment to the revival of Catholicism. Yet at the same time, in November and December 1889, Gaudí chose solitude in the monastery at Tortosa. Perhaps he was inspired by the Teresian College, which he was to complete in record time, before the beginning of summer 1890. In any case, slowly but firmly, he was moving closer to the Catalan Catholic Church.”

Quote: Przemysław Słowiński, Antoni Gaudi, Videograf, 2014, pp. 143–144.