How astrology fooled womankind We have surrendered control of our destiny

Modern astrology is seen as a niche fixation, but its roots are colossal and ancient, beginning in Mesopotamia and hurtling through the Greek, Islamic and Chinese traditions. The Hellenistic style, which forms the basis of much modern Western astrology, holds that 12 Zodiac constellations divide the heavens — the positions of planets and bright stars at your birth determine your destiny. According to an online quiz, I am a Virgo; my “moon sign” is Cancer and my “rising sign” is Scorpio. I was born in the Lincoln County Hospital at 12.34pm; my twin, two minutes earlier. I doubt two people were ever less alike — but our astrological diagnosis is the same. Even more damningly, we were delivered early, as twins often are, and plucked out by a surgeon. Were our destinies really determined by Lincoln County Hospital’s appointment-booking system?

The feminine vibe of astrology has much to do with the way newspaper horoscopes are written. A staple feature since the Thirties, they target the ruminations of young ladies: constant references to relationships, “soulmates” and fateful encounters hint at Mills & Boon-style titillation, while hijacking trendy notions of “self-care” and “manifestation” has propelled mystics to mainstream success. A 2016 YouGov poll showed that a staggering 42% of women believed that there was “definitely or maybe” truth in astrology or star signs, versus just 19% of men.

Why the disparity? We know that women tend to be more religious than men, and that in an increasingly secular culture, nebulously “spiritual” beliefs have taken hold, free of the oppressive flavour of old-school creeds. Sixties and Seventies New Age mysticism, a product of a bloated, over-educated and drug-addled middle class groping for rebellion, has evolved into a strange and paranoid fatalism among anxious young women. For many modern women poring over horoscopes, the trappings of spirituality — singular magpies, palm readings, lay lines — often represent monitions rather than heavenly guidance.

Then, there is the other side of trendy feminine mysticism. I know of a few insufferable “witches” — inevitably girls with tarot tattoos and ketamine habits — who appropriate a chic new brand of paganism (for approximately three years, before their first job in corporate law). For them, spirituality is ironic and sexy: baleful strumming of guitars, quirked-up rituals involving wax, moonlight skinny-dipping with other girls’ boyfriends. It is all about a non-specific radical unearthliness targeted both at and for men — no green slop in cauldrons, no eye of newt, just weed-honking hedonism. I hope that the particular university culprits I remember frolicking about in Port Meadow occasionally wince, from their glassy Kirkland & Ellis offices, at the embarrassing things they did in the name of Vashti Bunyan. We remember.

As an antidote to Gen Z’s performative mysticism, there are the middle-aged innocents — who I find to be quite charming. My twin and I once went to see a psychic called Brian, who operated out of his conservatory in Skellingthorpe. We sat there patiently on a settee surrounded by Native American knick-knacks as he rummaged through a list of initials of dead people we knew, waiting for our eyes to light up in recognition. He summoned an uncle we barely remember, and our long-gone grandmother who, he gleefully reported, was “laughing”. I do not remember her being much of a joker.

My then boyfriend was sat outside in the car — he was a very serious Christian so could not be associated with Brian’s dark arts. “This isn’t your first, is it,” Brian tells me. Perceptive of you. “The last one treated you badly, didn’t he?” Now I was listening. “Yep…” I said. (Not a bad guess, given we were no longer together.) “This one, he’s the one,” said Brian with a sage nod. “He’s got his head screwed on.”

Needless to say, a month later this boyfriend cheated on me with a girl from Christian camp. Perhaps it was in defiance of Brian’s heathen second sight? Perhaps the One True God had intervened to smite me for my heresy? I fear only a Sound of Music-style audience with a singing abbess will provide the answer. What is certain, though, is that we women should not be putting our faith in bogus guesswork, surrendering personal agency to the whims of horoscope writers, nor Skellingthorpe psychics.

And this is just one route into starry-eyed delusion. Think of the legions of middle-aged women who sit at home ringing up psychic hotlines — a big money-spinning element of horoscope writing — paying £5/minute to hear whether a tall dark stranger will court or kill them. Or the stampedes of clairvoyant animals wheeled out on live TV — Paul the Octopus being the most beloved. He died in 2010, aged two and a half, having correctly predicted the winner of eight World Cup matches. Then there are the mediums who ghoulishly gather intel on audience members before “summoning” loved ones during live shows — earpiece intact.

For astrology to retain its allure, it has to have the occasional hit. In 2020, a Twitter astrologer called Starheal declared that Kamala Harris would run for president this year “since this coincides with her Saturn return”; she also correctly predicted, on 11 July, that Biden would step down on the 21st — because “it will be at the Capricorn Full Moon”. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

With America in retrograde, astrology offers reassurance and a sense of control. Times of uncertainty have always been perfect petri dishes for all sorts of wacky interests: it was a century ago that the cultural upheavals of the Twenties spat out magick-making charlatans such as Aleister Crowley, or intellectuals such as W.B. Yeats flirting with the capital-W weird clubs including the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. It should not surprise us that each of these eras has its requisite bunkum — but this time round, it’s earnest young women rather than kohl-wearing sex pests like Crowley keeping the show on the road.

I wonder if my snobbery about astrology is connected to this fact. How often do we hear from straight men, sneering at women who are “into star signs” as shorthand for some broader, despicable feminine credulousness? For vapidity, stupidity? Is this entirely fair? Is my snobbery (read: rationality) just a subconscious way of slithering into the good books of men?

For many young women, tutting from men is part of the appeal: one friend tells me she brings star signs up on dates as a litmus test of whether potential partners are predisposed to that knee-jerk, borderline angry hatred of female fripperies. In this sense, star signs are simply a metonym for playful femininity, to be enjoyed with ironic detachment — and a good indicator of intolerance among bad-tempered men. But to give it any more credence than this is, I feel, a mistake. It’s time we women stopped wishing away control over our lives and dragged ourselves out of the dark ages. After all, why should men alone be the captains of their fate?

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Poppy Sowerby is an UnHerd columnist

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