Christian Lukeka Michel on Pneuma

In Pneuma: Self’s Emissary, mortal prayer sustains the power of the gods. Michael Lancilgon travels through this world without their blessing, following a path shaped by contemplation, an affinity with nature and the simple act of sharing tea.

We spoke with Christian Lukeka Michel about the experiences behind his novel, the relationship between hermeticism and writing, and what it means to form bonds without trying to possess another person. His answers offer a personal account of how Michael came into being—and why Christian hopes readers will recognise something of themselves in him.

This interview has been translated from French and lightly edited for clarity.

You grew up in Bukavu and attended a Kimbanguist school. What experiences from those years have found their way into Pneuma?

It may sound like a childhood incident, but when I was in primary school, another pupil kept making my life difficult. He even demanded things from me. I was passive and afraid, until one day I decided to stand up to him. A few weeks later, we had become friends.

I drew on that experience when I created Mukamba, the guardian of the sanctuary in the dwarves’ mountains.

You studied general psycho-pedagogy, but have said that hermeticism and writing taught you things about humanity that your studies could not. What did you discover through them?

Pedagogy and related disciplines teach us about the people we are meant to educate, and how to teach them according to their psychological processes. That is very effective, but it does not teach introspection in the way hermeticism does. The examination tends to go in one direction: we analyse the person being educated, while the educator remains unexamined.

Hermeticism begins with looking into yourself. By understanding yourself, you can also understand others and help them. Otherwise, you risk becoming an arrogant guru.

Writing gives me a way to bring aspects of my own being to life. It is a kind of mirror, first for me and then for others.

What came first: Michael Lancilgon, the world of the Aethyrs, or the idea of the Breath?

Michael Lancilgon came first. I have my shortcomings. Sometimes, for reasons connected to my ethnic background, I find myself intolerant of things that, deep down, I do not want to be intolerant of. That is where Croft’s personality began.

At heart, what matters to me is freedom—as long as it does not violate cosmic laws—and harmony. That buried part of me took root and gave life to Michael Lancilgon.

In this world, the gods draw power from mortal prayer. What interested you about making devotion a source of power for them?

We humans often have a desire to feel superior, special or set apart from others. We do not hesitate to invent divine callings for ourselves: “I am the chosen one of this god,” or “That god has entrusted me with this task.”

If a higher being comes to us and makes that dream real in exchange for absolute devotion, that can be enough for us. We may submit completely to its will, even at the cost of our freedom.

What does “Self” mean in the subtitle Self’s Emissary, and how does Michael’s relationship with it differ from serving a god?

The Self is Michael himself, or rather the divine state he has reached through practice. By practice, I mean his travels, his contemplation of natural phenomena, his tea—all of these belong to the path he has chosen and through which he has reached, or continues to reach, the divine.

There is no need for sacrifices, for losing his freedom or for bringing consequences upon the world. It is enough to be in harmony with nature.

You describe Michael as carrying your baptismal name and some of the qualities you wish to cultivate in yourself. How does writing him help you explore those qualities?

Writing him holds up a mirror to my own being, so that I can work on myself. In pedagogy, we would call that “teaching material,” although I would rather not reduce him to that.

Michael’s calm and humour persist even in dangerous situations. Where does that composure come from?

It is one of the consequences of his path. He is at one with nature. His composure is like that of a tree facing a woodcutter: it does not struggle. It simply continues to be, until it is cut down.

Tea has a recurring place in Michael’s journey. What does it reveal about him?

Tea is a kind of symphony of gestures, expressing who he really is and what he radiates around him. Everyone can share in it—not because they have to, but because they wish to.

Here, tea plays a role similar to the ring in The Lord of the Rings.

The novel brings together names and images associated with different religious and magical traditions. How did you decide what to draw from those traditions and what to invent?

I cannot really explain it. I would say it comes from a kind of subtle sensitivity and occult inspiration, as well as my love of Assyrian and English culture.

The Infinite Glass Library contains books made of light, each holding a prayer. How did you imagine this place, and what possibilities did it open for the story?

In Gnosticism, there is the demiurge, Yaldabaoth, who creates our world but is not the true God, and prevents anyone from trying to see beyond his light.

I imagined a celestial realm, drawing on the sophisticated worldbuilding of Japanese light novels and my own extravagant imagination. It gives Olzam and his circle a higher dimension and makes them a more formidable threat.

As Michael’s companions begin to question the powers they once trusted, how do their different experiences shape the journey?

Through Croft, we learn that it is possible to free yourself from the hold of a blessing by renouncing it, along with all the advantages it brings.

Then there is Gwen, who escaped the collectors. She is living proof that the system is flawed. Her presence and development also help the others, dispelling the last doubts some of Michael’s companions still carry.

Your novel leaves room for the gods themselves to need liberation. What interested you about exploring that possibility?

Olzam and the others were once human. They were hungry for power, certainly, and wanted to control everything, including the development of mortals and their shadows—Vovin. But they are not black magicians, so there is still hope.

Besides, given Michael Lancilgon’s personality, adversaries in the conventional sense would not really fit.

In your biography, you describe creating characters as “crafting souls from the fragments of your own.” What did writing Pneuma bring to the surface that you had not expected?

What emerged was Michael’s way of forming bonds without possessing or influencing anyone. With him, you are free to stay, to leave, to return—to do as you wish.

It is a positive form of letting go.

What would you like readers to continue thinking or feeling after the final page—and what are you curious to hear from them?

I hope they will recognise aspects of themselves, and I am curious to hear them speak about that recognition. I want Michael to be a mirror for them, too.

Explore Pneuma: Self’s Emissary, or read more about Christian Lukeka Michel.