The True Story of Atlantis

Why the Sunken Island is so Significant

Athanasius Kircher (1602-1680), Insulae Atlantidis, in Mundus subterraneus, Vol.I, Amsterdam 1664 (source)

Last year, my first novel was translated and published in the United States by Os Justi Press. Entitled The Island Without Seasons, it follows the adventure of Alexander Jacob Wills, a specialist in classical studies, who is hired by an eccentric English aristocrat, Lord Gilbert Newman, to find Atlantis. Some readers have asked me why I chose the sunken island as the core of my story. Here’s the essential (short) answer.

From the earliest times, the history of the sunken island has ignited the imagination of philosophers, theologians, historians, as well as the most eccentric adventurers. The detailed descriptions in Plato’s Critias have seemed to offer sufficiently strong evidence of its truth. How could one doubt the existence of a city whose customs, organization, political and economic structure, religious and spiritual life were described with such detail and vividness by the Athenian philosopher?

Whenever we read Critias, it is enough to close our eyes to contemplate a fabulous city “surrounded by a plain, which was itself surrounded by mountains, and these mountains extended to the seashore,” and which had “a length of 3,000 stadia, with its center being 2,000 stadia from the seashore” (118a).

Based on these descriptions, we encounter authors who do not for a moment doubt the existence of Atlantis; the most notable seems to be the famous Neoplatonic philosopher Proclus, a distinguished commentator on the dialogue Timaeus. In his commentaries, he recounts how a certain Crantor visited Egypt around 300 years after a similar visit undertaken by Solon, the lawmaker of ancient Greece. There, Crantor is said to have seen in the city of Sais several columns covered with ancient texts, testimonies identical to those of Plato that confirmed the real existence of Atlantis. It is also Proclus who cites Marcellus, a historiographer who confirmed the existence of seven islands in the Atlantic Ocean dedicated to the goddess Proserpina, alongside which stood three islands whose inhabitants were aware of the existence of Atlantis—also dedicated to Poseidon.

Inspired by such ancient testimonies, the search for Atlantis represents a passion as fervent as the exploration of the Great Pyramid of Khufu or the investigation of the ancient structures of Palenque.¹ Even more, sometimes it seems that the exploration of seas and oceans in search of the sunken island is more appealing, more fascinating than the investigation of tangible archaeological sites. In this sense, we can note a certain similarity with explorations aimed at locating the biblical Paradise where the forefathers Adam and Eve lived in original innocence.² How can we explain the enormous interest that Atlantis has aroused over thousands of years?

The desire to find hidden territories, whether real or not, points to the presence of a deep nostalgia for a lost world within the human soul. The archetype of the lost paradise, the miraculous city where eternal youth and life without death are possible, reveals one of the essential aspirations of people living in a fallen world.

The success of Indiana Jones films or of those novels that directly address the myth of Atlantis proves—beyond the sometimes questionable quality of such works—the irresistible attraction that lost worlds have on us. After all, much of classical culture was born from speculation about unseen worlds, which both Plato and his followers, such as saints like Augustine, Maximus the Confessor, or the Teutonic abbess Hildegard of Bingen, testified were more desirable than our tangible world. In the end, don’t we all long for a world that is truly just, good, and beautiful?

1. An article in which I succinctly discuss the significance of the sarcophagus of King Kʼinich Janaab Pakal I from Palenque can be read here: https://europeanconservative.com/articles/essay/demystifying-paleo-astronautics/ [Accessed: 17 September 2024].

2. Here is the first chapter from a forthcoming book dedicated to the location of Paradise: