By sanctifying History in order to discredit God, Marxism has merely rendered Him more peculiar and more haunting. You can stifle every impulse in humBy sanctifying History in order to discredit God, Marxism has merely rendered Him more peculiar and more haunting. You can stifle every impulse in humanity except the need for an Absolute, which will survive the destruction of temples and even the disappearance of religion on earth. Russia and the Virus of Liberty, pg. 25.
Wow, History and Utopia is truly blowing my mind right now. I think I described it as a "mind orgasm" last night, but I was fresh off the dank and my descriptive capacities were severely impaired by the stupefying psychotropic in combination with the stunning content. Dark, pithy, isomorphic, resonant—concise, illustrious historical hallucinations....more
holyfuckingshit40000.blogspot.com, 20 volume Orwell set. Brand new, at the College. Absolute political, prosaic, poetic, epistolary, and, of courseholyfuckingshit40000.blogspot.com, 20 volume Orwell set. Brand new, at the College. Absolute political, prosaic, poetic, epistolary, and, of course, most importantly, proletarian dopeness. Orwell is also clearly a master poetic architect possessing and wielding, once again, his signature immensity of clarity. This one I found appropriate for the current autumnal/summer meteorological tumults:
Summer-like for an instant the autumn sun bursts out, And the light through the turning elms is green and clear; It slants down the path and the ragged marigolds glow Fiery again, last flames of the dying year.
A blue-tit darts with a flash of wings, to feed Where the coconut hangs on the pear tree over the well; He digs at the meat like a tiny pickaxe tapping With his needle-sharp beak as he clings to the swinging shell.
The he runs up the trunk, sure-footed and sleek like a mouse, And perches to sun himself; all his body and brain Exult in the sudden sunlight, gladly believing That the cold is over and summer is here again.
But I see the umber clouds that drive for the sun, And a sorrow no argument ever can make away Goes through my heart as I think of the nearing winter, And the transient light that gleams like the ghost of May;
And the bird unaware, blessing the summer eternal, Joyfully labouring, proud in his strength, gay-plumed, Unaware of the hawk and the snow and the frost-bound nights, And of his death foredoomed....more