Science, Art, Will, and Virtue: Reframing the Definition of Magick

“Indubitably, Magick is one of the subtlest and most difficult of the sciences and arts.”-Aleister Crowley

When Ad Hominem Leads to Insight

I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about what magick actually is and how I would define it. This was sparked after a somewhat “heated” debate with a fellow magician on Facebook. Instead of engaging with what I actually said—or even what I had written previously—he started spouting off unrelated questions, moving the goalposts of the discussion, and attacking me personally. It was ad hominem for days! One of the questions he threw out was: What is your definition of magick? Again, it was unrelated to anything I had said or the topic we were discussing—but kudos to him. It got me thinking more deeply, and I’m legitimately thankful for that. I thought I had my definition; however, after unpacking my thoughts I found that defining magick required more nuance than I had previously afforded to it. 1

But before we can settle on a definition of magick, we need to step back and ask a prior question: what do we mean by knowing itself, and how do we categorize it? The Greeks gave us a rich vocabulary for this—terms like doxa, pistis, epistēmē, technē, dogma, and gnōsis. I want to pause here because magick doesn’t fit neatly into any one of these categories. In practice it draws on all of them at once, shifting between opinion, trust, systematic knowledge, craft, doctrine, and direct experience. That complexity is what makes the conversation both fascinating and, at times, frustratingly sticky. Still, by mapping out these categories we can make better sense of what magick is and how it works—and I think we can still arrive at a sound, workable definition. 2

A Greek Way with Words — Not All Knowledge Is the Same

The Greeks had a remarkable way of carving up the landscape of “knowing.” For them, not all knowledge was the same, and the distinctions they made are surprisingly useful for thinking about magick.

The first of these categories is doxa—opinion, what seems right, but may not be true. Plato is clear that doxa is provisional, always in danger of error. And if we are honest, a great deal of what circulates in occult circles today is closer to doxa than to knowledge proper: lore, correspondences, or inherited traditions that we work with even when they cannot be independently verified. Yet this is also where genuine knowledge often begins. The tables of correspondences we inherit, for example, are not arbitrary. They were recorded because earlier practitioners believed they worked. Still, until these things are tested and embodied in one’s own practice, they remain doxa: accepted opinion rather than true knowledge. This is where pistis comes in—faith or trust. Pistis is the confidence to act on doxa before it has proven itself as epistēmē. It is the faith that a ritual, a name, or a correspondence will work, even without proof, and the willingness to proceed on that trust. In practice, every magician begins here: acting “as if,” giving the work a chance to reveal its efficacy. And as we will see, even when practitioners did not believe in the theology of a rite, they usually had pistis in the technique—confidence that the method itself would work.

From here we come to epistēmē—systematic knowledge, reasoned, demonstrable, and teachable. For the Greeks, epistēmē was the gold standard, the kind of knowledge that could be trusted and built upon. In magick, epistēmē appears in the more formal, systematic side of the work: the magician’s orientation, the use of planetary hours, ritual structure, tools, and incenses—the parts that can be repeated and taught to others.  What begins as doxa becomes epistēmē when faith (pistis) gives way to practice and the work proves itself in application.

Closely related to epistēmē is technē—practical skill, craft, or art. If epistēmē is knowing that something is true, technē is knowing how to do it. In magick this means visualization, vibration, tool-making, timing, and the whole range of ritual skills that can only be acquired through practice. 3  If technique is not skillfully applied, nothing happens–or at least nothing you want. If epistēmē is the science of magick, technē is its art.

From here it is only a small step to dogma. In Greek, dogma originally meant teaching, principle, or decree. In religious contexts it hardened into doctrine, binding belief. In the occult world, dogma emerges whenever communities attempt to codify epistēmē—to fix, preserve, and enforce their understanding of what “works.” Dogma has a double edge: it safeguards knowledge, but it can also close off inquiry, mistaking the record of practice for an immutable law.  Occultists often scoff at this word, but then will defend a certain mythological perspective or practitioner in an attempt to elevate them above the others (i.e. give them a special standing or authority). This is difficult water to tread, I understand being passionate about a tradition, approach, or practitioner–I know that I have my favorites. On the other hand, when taken too far it can be divisive and take away from what really makes the magick work–techniques.  

Finally, there is gnōsis—direct, experiential knowing. This is the insight you don’t just learn about, but encounter. In the mystery religions and in Gnostic sects, gnōsis was the very goal of initiation: salvation through lived contact with the divine. In magick, it is the fruit—the transformative experience that validates the work on the deepest level, beyond doxa, pistis, epistēmē, or dogma. It is the lasting change you experience in your interior world or the practical results that you get that can only be explained by magick–gnosis must be tested against reality. If you are doing inner magickal work, the test is whether your relationships improve, whether you are more balanced and less reactive, whether your work or daily life shows signs of growth. True gnōsis leaves a trace of change. 

I know that not everyone believes that this is magick and I understand their caution since this evaluation requires much more honesty, insight, and introspection on the part of the practitioner, but I still stand by the position that your life will improve and that others will notice.  Never trust a magician peddling something whose life is visibly a mess. Inner work, done well, is more than therapy with candles—it changes who you are and the environment around you. To borrow the metaphor of Rufus Opus in The Seven Spheres, you are a king, a divine being, and when magick is done correctly your kingdom should be ordered and flourishing. 4

What is true of inner work applies equally to exterior practice. Thaumaturgy—the magick aimed at practical results—must also be tested against reality. Did you get what you asked for? Were you specific? Can the result only be explained by magick? This too leads to deep knowing: the recognition that magick is real, tangible, and miraculous. It is a gnosis of a different sort, but gnosis nonetheless—for it is no longer a matter of faith, you now know.

Exploring these categories matters because they help us parse the subtle layers of what we mean when we talk about “magickal knowledge.” Techniques work whether or not one has personal devotion to the spirits or gods invoked, but that only underscores the point: in practice, a magician’s faith often shifts from theology to technique. This is why epistēmē and technē form the backbone of any workable definition of magick. They show us that magick is not just belief or opinion, but a union of structured knowledge and practiced skill, animated by trust and crowned by gnōsis. And this is precisely why Crowley’s formula of “science and art” continues to resonate—it captures this balance.

Crowley and the Balance of Science, Art, and Will

This brings us to Aleister Crowley’s famous definition: “Magick is the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will.” 5 For all the debates in the occult community, most definitions of magick are really just variations of this formula. That alone says something: Crowley managed to distill into a single sentence what centuries of practice and philosophy had been circling around. What makes his definition so enduring is that it holds together the very categories we have just explored. His word science speaks to epistēmē—systematic, demonstrable knowledge. His word art speaks to technē—the skillful craft of applying that knowledge. And the idea of Will ties both together, suggesting that magick is never just technical but purposeful, directed, and transformative. 

Science (Epistēmē)

When Crowley calls magick a science, he is pointing to its systematic and repeatable dimensions. This resonates strongly with the Greek category of epistēmē—knowledge that is demonstrable, teachable, and reliable. As noted above, science is not just a collection of opinions (doxa); it is knowledge that can be organized, transmitted, and tested.

Crowley illustrates this vividly in his “28 Theorems of Magick.” He begins with the claim that “every intentional act is a Magickal act,” and that “every successful act has conformed to the postulate” of Will. Failure, by contrast, “proves that one or more requirements of the postulate have not been fulfilled.” In other words, magick is a discipline of diagnosis and correction: if a ritual fails, it is because the magician has misunderstood the case, applied the wrong kind of force, or lacked the proper medium or degree. This is magick as empirical method: trial, error, refinement.

“The first requisite for causing any change,” Crowley insists, “is thorough qualitative and quantitative understanding of the conditions.” This is epistēmē at its core—systematic knowledge of the situation, without which the Will cannot be properly applied. The second requisite is “the practical ability to set in right motion the necessary forces.” Here science and art begin to overlap, but the scientific foundation remains: one cannot employ what one does not understand.

This scientific character of magick is not unique to Crowley. Scholars have noted that science and religion—or, more broadly, systematic knowledge and transformative practice—are not inherently opposed but complementary. Science explains mechanism; religion and art provide meaning. Taken together, they offer a fuller account of human knowing, and magick situates itself in precisely this union. 6 Modern theories of consciousness likewise support this synthesis, describing reality as nested fields of process rather than isolated objects. Knowledge (epistēmē) provides the structured grasp of these fields, while Will represents the intentional direction of consciousness within them. 7

This is why grimoires and modern magical systems alike are filled with charts, diagrams, and instructions. Crowley himself compared this to modern science: we may not know what consciousness or electricity “really” are, and yet we can still employ them through consistent method. Magick, like science, proceeds empirically—by discovering and employing hidden continuities in nature.

For Crowley, this culminates in a simple formula: “Magick is the Science of understanding oneself and one’s conditions.” Every extension of knowledge extends the reach of what magick can accomplish, while every ignorance of conditions guarantees failure. In this sense, epistēmē is both humbling and liberating: it grounds magick in a logic of cause and effect, but also opens the possibility of limitless discovery.

Art (Technē)

Technē is not about knowing that something is true, but knowing how to do it. Magick is never just theory; it is craft, timing, and the disciplined application of technique. Crowley himself defined magick as not only science but also “the Art of applying that understanding in action.” 8 Without this artistic dimension, magickal knowledge remains sterile.

In practice, technē is the art of ritual: visualization, vibration, consecration, timing, and the making and use of tools. These skills cannot be learned from books alone; they must be embodied through repetition until they become second nature. Just as a musician must rehearse scales before performing a symphony, the magician must train in ritual technique before the work bears fruit. Technē is the living application of structured knowledge—knowledge that only becomes magick through craft.

This aesthetic dimension of magick is essential. Ritual is not merely instrumental, a means to secure results, but an act of creative re-ordering. As J. P. Vasquez argues, religion itself can be understood as a form of aesthetic creation, where ritual “re-enchants the world” through form, symbol, and performance. 9 In this light, magick is a living art: its symbols and forms do not merely point to realities beyond, but actively shape how the practitioner encounters the world.

The artistic side of magick also guards against reductionism. R. C. Zaehner reminds us that science alone explains mechanism, but art and religion supply meaning and value. 10 Magick unites these two dimensions. Its scientific side (epistēmē) provides order and method, but its artistic side (technē) provides depth, beauty, and transformative power. Without art, magick would collapse into dry procedure; without science, it would drift into mere spectacle.

In the end, technē affirms that magick is not just knowledge, but craft. It is not enough to know, magick must be  performed, with skill and creativity, until the ritual itself becomes a work of art.

Will (Thelema)

If science (epistēmē) gives magick its structure, and art (technē) gives it life, then will is what gives it direction. Without will, magick is aimless—a collection of forms without purpose. Crowley placed this at the very heart of his system, describing will not as whim or personal desire in the moment, but as the True Will—the deep, unifying purpose of a person’s existence. 11

Crowley illustrated this with several of his Theorems of Magick, some of which we have already explored above.  He insists that “every intentional act is a Magickal act,” and that failures occur when the will is divided, misapplied, or ignorant of its own nature. A man who mistakes his false will for his true course, Crowley warns, is like a nation at civil war—unable to accomplish anything because its energies are split against themselves. But the one who discovers and aligns with his True Will, “has the inertia of the Universe to assist him.” 12 Magick, then, is not simply about exerting control but about discovering alignment: the recognition that one’s personal course flows with, rather than against, the greater order of nature.

This emphasis on will as alignment rather than domination dovetails with modern reflections on consciousness. Rick Delmonico argues that consciousness itself is relational: a unity of mind, matter, and nature that extends beyond the individual ego. 13 To will, in this deeper sense, is to participate in a network of relations that are already alive with meaning. Magick works by attuning to these fields of connection and directing them with intentionality. Will is therefore not a brute assertion but a shaping of relationship—an alignment of self with cosmos.

The ethical dimension of will also matters. Ellen Randolph has shown how transformation in Gnostic contexts is tied to the integration of the feminine and the balancing of polarities. 14 Will, in magick, is not sheer force but the ordering principle that harmonizes opposites. It is the power that unites knowledge and skill, spirit and matter, self and other. Without this harmonizing role, will collapses into egoism, and magick becomes either ineffective or destructive.

In this light, will completes the triad. Science provides structure, art provides skillful means, and will gives both their telos. To define magick as the union of these three is to see it not as mere manipulation but as a discipline of alignment: a way of knowing, crafting, and willing that participates in the deeper currents of the world. This, perhaps, is the irony of that Facebook debate that sparked this essay. The question “what is your definition of magick?” was meant as a deflection, but it forced me to face the question seriously. And the answer, I believe, lies right here: magick is the science of knowledge, the art of practice, and the will to align them with purpose.

Virtue and the Formation of the Magician

If will gives magick its direction, then virtue is what gives the will its strength. In the classical world, virtues were not abstract ideals but cultivated habits of character (aretai in Greek, virtutes in Latin). Plato argued in the Republic that the four cardinal virtues—prudence (practical wisdom), justice, fortitude (courage), and temperance—were the foundations of a well-ordered soul. 15 These were not only ethical ideals but practical tools for living in harmony with the cosmos. “Wisdom, courage, moderation, and justice,” Plato writes, “are the qualities that make a city and a man good.” 16

The same holds true for the practice of magick. To persevere in daily ritual requires fortitude, the courage to continue even when results are uncertain. Temperance disciplines desire, keeping the will from scattering across conflicting aims. Prudence provides discernment, helping the magician decide not only how to act, but whether a particular act of magick should be undertaken at all. Justice, finally, reminds us that magick is never done in isolation but always within a web of relations, and that one’s actions should aim at balance rather than exploitation. As Cicero put it, “Justice is the crowning glory of the virtues,” for it orders one’s relation to others as prudence orders the self. 17

Without these virtues, the will wavers. Perseverance falters, desire overreaches, discernment clouds, and power is misapplied. But when cultivated, virtues transform will into something steady, focused, and trustworthy. They make the magician not merely effective but responsible.

Virtue also elevates the perspective of the practitioner. The one who has done inner work has a wider field of vision: able to see beyond immediate desires, to weigh consequences, and to align action with a higher purpose. In Stoic terms, virtue grants the power to see events from the cosmic perspective (synnoia). As Epictetus wrote in his Discourses, “First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do.” 18 In magick, this means that the cultivated soul sees more clearly whether an act aligns with its True Will or distorts it.

In this sense, virtue grounds thaumaturgy in theurgy, ensuring that practical operations flow from an integrated self rather than a divided one. Magick, then, is never only a matter of science, art, and will. It is also a matter of character. Just as the ancients saw philosophy as the cultivation of virtue, so magick can be seen as a school of the soul: a way of becoming not only more powerful, but more whole.

Virtue Misunderstood: Character Versus Morality

At this point, it is important to stress what I mean by virtue. In modern occult communities, “virtue” is often dismissed as a Christian hangover, a set of moral prohibitions designed to suppress desire. But in the classical world, virtue had a different meaning. It was not a matter of sin and guilt but of strength and order—habits of the soul that aligned one with the cosmos. Plato’s four cardinal virtues, the Stoics’ discipline of assent, and the Neoplatonists’ insistence on purification all point in this direction: character as capacity, not as constraint.

Iamblichus, in his On the Mysteries, makes this point explicitly: “It is not the words or symbols themselves that unite us to the gods, but the purity of our soul when we use them.” 19 The Chaldean Oracles likewise speak of purifying the soul so it can receive the divine fire: “Do not allow a weak soul to carry out the great work.” 20 Even the Greek Magical Papyri, for all their practical spells, repeatedly stress the need for ritual purity and self-control: “You must be holy and pure, for a god takes part in the rite.” 21

This thread carries into the grimoires of late antiquity and the medieval period, where fasts, abstinences, confessions, and prayers were required of the magician before any conjuration could take place. These are not simply holdovers from Christianity but part of a much older conviction: that magick without virtue is unstable and prone to corruption.

It is here that we must face a difficult irony. The modern occult community owes much of its vocabulary to Aleister Crowley, yet Crowley himself was not a paragon of virtue. His definition of magick as the “Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will” is one of the most useful ever penned. But his life was hardly exemplary of the balance and harmony described by Plato, Cicero, or Iamblichus. This raises the charge of hypocrisy: how can we preach virtue while citing Crowley?

The answer, I think, lies in distinguishing the formula from the man. Crowley gave us a definition; it is up to us to provide the grounding he, at times, lacked. If the ancients are right, then the true power of magick lies not merely in its techniques but in the virtues that sustain them. A magician without character is like a city without order: noisy, chaotic, and doomed to fall. But a magician shaped by virtue can unite science, art, and will in a way that participates in the harmony of the cosmos.  Yet even once we recover this classical sense of virtue, questions remain: what happens when our behavior falters, or when virtue demands actions that look, by later standards, immoral? This is where we must go further.

Virtue Beyond Morality: Values, Behavior, and Exceptions

Virtue is not the same as moral perfection. There is often a discrepancy between our values and our behavior. The Greeks called this akrasia—the weakness of will that causes us to act against our better judgment. Every magician, like every philosopher, faces this struggle. Virtue is not about never failing, but about the steady cultivation of habits that bring one back into alignment.

Moreover, virtue does not always align with what later ages would call morality. In occult circles, discussions of “black” and “white” magick often reduce it, as noted above, to imported Christian categories of sin and purity. 22 But the classical understanding of virtue was more fluid. A magician acting with prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance might still find it necessary to use magick that causes harm. Binding a violent enemy, cursing an oppressor, or redirecting destructive forces are not violations of virtue if they serve the higher balance of justice. As Cicero put it, “Justice consists in giving each their due”—not in refusing ever to inflict harm. 23

This perspective challenges simplistic moral binaries. Virtue provides the framework for judgment, but it does not prescribe every act in advance. The prudent magician recognizes that exceptions exist and that sometimes the harsh remedy is the only one that restores order. What matters is not conformity to an external code but fidelity to the inner cultivation of character. A magician who acts from virtue—even in moments of apparent severity—remains aligned with the deeper harmony of the cosmos.

Conclusion: Toward a Workable Definition of Magick

What began as an ad hominem Facebook quarrel led me to a deeper question: how do we actually define magick? The Greeks gave us categories of knowing—doxa, pistis, epistēmē, technē, dogma, and gnōsis—that helped us see magick as more than superstition or opinion. Crowley distilled centuries of practice into his famous definition of magick as “the Science and Art of causing Change to occur in conformity with Will.” From there, we have seen how magick indeed bears the marks of science (epistēmē), art (technē), and will (thelema).

But science, art, and will are not enough. Without virtue, magick risks becoming reckless, unmoored from the very harmony it seeks to engage. The ancients knew this: Plato’s cardinal virtues, the Stoics’ discipline, the Chaldean call for purity, the grimoires’ insistence on preparation and self-control—all point to the necessity of character.

This, then, is how I would define magick: Magick is the union of structured knowledge and practiced skill (Epistēmē, Technē/Art), directed by will (Thelema) and sustained by virtue (Aretē), in order to bring about transformation—both theurgic and thaumaturgic–in harmony with the cosmos (Harmonia) . It is not merely science or art, but both. It is not merely belief or opinion, but tested knowledge and embodied practice. And it is not merely will unchained, but will shaped and disciplined by the virtues that make us whole.

To be sure, other modes of knowing still play their part. Doxa (opinion), pistis (faith or trust), and dogma (the codification of knowledge into teaching) remain part of the magician’s landscape. They are necessary but secondary: beginnings, supports, or boundaries rather than the essence of the work. Without them, magick could not take root; but without epistēmē, technē, will, and virtue, it could never flourish.

In this way, the debate that began with a measure of frustration ends in clarity. Crowley gave us a formula; the Greeks gave us categories; the ancient world gave us method and virtue and the grimoires preserved and reshaped these things, passing them down to us in new forms.  Our task as modern magicians is to integrate them—to practice magick not only with technique and will, but with character. For only then does magick fulfill its highest promise: not just to make changes in the world, but to change the magician into one who can rightly wield such power.

—
Frater Henosis

Footnotes:

1. If you’re curious, the actual argument was over how practitioners often struggle to distinguish between academic and non-academic sources, as well as how to apply them appropriately in conversation and practice. Often certain material, perspectives, and community “sainted” and revered individuals are treated with a dogmatic loyalty, in much the same way a Nicene Christian might treat the Bible (material), the doctrine of the Trinity (perspective), or Athanasius of Alexandria (sainted authority).

2. For a fuller discussion of these terms, see Pierre Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life: Spiritual Exercises from Socrates to Foucault, ed. Arnold I. Davidson, trans. Michael Chase (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 265–80; and Dominic O’Meara, Platonopolis: Platonic Political Philosophy in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Clarendon, 2003), 31–35. See also Glenn Alexander Magee, Hegel and the Hermetic Tradition (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001), 47–54.

3. For example, the distinction between knowledge and skill can be illustrated by woodworking. One may acquire all the right tools, but without consistent and repeated practice of technique, no finished product of quality will ever result. This underscores that skill is not separate from technique but is what makes technique effective in practice—without skill, technique remains inert.

4. Rufus Opus, The Seven Spheres (n.p.: Nephilim Press, 2014).

5. Aleister Crowley, Magick in Theory and Practice, part III of Magick: Liber ABA, Book 4 (York Beach, ME: Weiser, 1997), 126. Jason Miller suggests a subtle but important amendment, defining magick instead as the art and science of influencing change in conformity with Will. It is out of the purview of this essay to explore this amendment here, but I highly recommend the writings of Jason Miller. See also Jason Miller, The Elements of Spellcrafting: 21 Keys to Successful Sorcery (Newburyport, MA: Weiser, 2017), 21.

6. Rick Delmonico, Consciousness: The Unity of Mind, Matter, and Nature (Bloomington, IN: iUniverse, 2017), 21–25.

7. Ellen P. Randolph, Gnosticism, Transformation, and the Role of the Feminine in the Gnostic Mass of the Ecclesia Gnostica Catholica (E.G.C.) (master’s thesis, Florida International University, 2014), 6–8.

8. Crowley, Magick in Theory and Practice, 126.

9. J. P. Vasquez, Religion as Aesthetic Creation: Ritual and the Re-Enchantment of the World (2010), 12–15.

10. R. C. Zaehner, The Reunion of Science and Religion (London: Oxford University Press, 1957), 44–49.

11. Crowley, Magick in Theory and Practice, 126.

12. Ibid., 128–30.

13. Delmonico, Consciousness, 21–25.

14. Randolph, Gnosticism, Transformation, 6–8.

15. Plato, Republic, trans. C. D. C. Reeve (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2004), 427e–434c.

16. Ibid., 427e.

17. Cicero, On Duties, trans. Walter Miller (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913), I.7.

18. Epictetus, Discourses, 1.1, trans. W.A. Oldfather, vol. 1 of Epictetus: The Discourses as Reported by Arrian, the Manual, and Fragments (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925), 3.

19. Iamblichus, On the Mysteries, trans. Emma C. Clarke, John M. Dillon, and Jackson P. Hershbell (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), II.11.

20. The Chaldean Oracles, in Ruth Majercik, The Chaldean Oracles: Text, Translation, and Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 1989), fr. 108.

21. PGM IV.475–829, in Hans Dieter Betz, ed., The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation: Including the Demotic Spells, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 72.

22. Or perhaps the misunderstanding or distortion of them, but that is far beyond the purpose of this article.

23. Cicero, On Duties, I.7.

Bibliography

Betz, Hans Dieter, ed. The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation: Including the Demotic Spells. 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.

Cicero. On Duties. Translated by Walter Miller. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913.

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Delmonico, Rick. Consciousness: The Unity of Mind, Matter, and Nature. Bloomington, IN: iUniverse, 2017.

Epictetus. Epictetus: The Discourses as Reported by Arrian, the Manual, and Fragments. Translated by W.A. Oldfather. 2 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925.

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