And keeping pure for three days, come at dawn toward the east; lick off the leaf, showing it to the sun, and thus he will hearken perfectly. Begin to consecrate it at the new moon in Leo, by the god. The name is this: i, ee, oo, iai. This

The gesture is startlingly bodily: you lick the name off the leaf — apóleiche tò phýllon — swallowing the written word, taking the god's name physically into yourself while you hold the leaf up to the rising sun. Writing here is not to be read but to be eaten; the power is in the ink, and the ink goes in. This is a widespread ancient practice — washing or licking a written charm to ingest it — and it makes literal what the whole rite has claimed: the divine word must enter the body, not just the mind. And then the manual finally delivers the secret it had deferred. 'The name is this:' — and it is not a word but a little scale of vowels, i · ee · oo · iai. Count the letters: eight, exactly the oktagrámmaton, the 'eight-lettered name' promised above. It has no meaning to speak; it has a shape and a sound, four vowel-clusters that open the mouth wider and wider. The holiest name in this working is a thing you sing, not something you understand — the same conviction that ran through the seven vowels at the rite's beginning, returning at its very end.