The age of mass confusion replaced healthy skepticism with unmoored rumination, whose profound effects in the realm of governance already manifest and shall become ever more apparent with an increasing reduction of self-thinking.
How unfortunate was the tyranny of the last hundred years, a culture stripped so poor, that not even the voices of the angels could be heard past the dust, fumes, and clanks of the newly free men — even still, the artisans of sound refuse to calm down and understand the need for a new music — in the meantime, Schubert.
One cannot run away from language, despite all attempts at denuding — a single predicate will always emerge.
If one degrades themselves to the point that they are labelled as degraded by others, then there really is not much one may moan about — work through the desolation and ruins.
A sudden confluence of nodal and celestial time may bring about a lustrous understanding of an intractable point — “turn it and turn it, for everything is in it.”
There is no grandeur, no clenched fists of triumph, in victories born of ash.
Sometimes one keeps the wound open to appease the One, to not define becomes the strength of irresolution.
With time even the most abstract of judgements shall be rendered harmonious with reason for the Lord is under no obligation to make legible all of His commandments in the present moment, in time.
To blame Schubert for eschewing unnecessary drama is remarkably inane, it is clear how fine the fingers were, so thoroughly fused that there was little need to call attention to themselves through needless blistering notes.
If one looks at their loved ones on the brink of passing away, there is something dazed about the ways their eyes fixate on things, as if unto a void.
To hold death in the hand is an opportunity to cast away the accretions of time on one’s soul and body.
In all those years, all that changed was the size of trees and the paint on walls, nothing had changed in the souls of men — crass, crude, and ceaselessly churlish.
Melody can make the profane sacred.
All pain is the Lord’s hand on one’s shoulder — a major blessing.
To have a belief in these times is a miracle; not an option, a conviction — better if it is rightly ordered because a dysfunctional belief is worse than a defective opinion.
Taste in music is even more subjective than taste in literature as the ear inputs and cogitates onwards faster than the eyes themselves do, the latter affording the self more time to form judgement.
One can reach contingent states wherein their self-state is equivalent to the base and whole indivisible sense of that archetypal state — subjective joy and grief in those moments is so total that it becomes coincidental with their respective necessary types.
The breath of existence held in one’s palms.
What happened to the burnt romantic of centuries past; they were reborn in newer times with stakes through their chest so all words of beauty would be concomitant with seeping blood.
The mercy of the Lord is singularly sufficient: it can enfold doctrinal absurdities under its shade when it senses and perceives genuine sincerity within — three men chanting in the cave engraved inside the mountain may perhaps err in their conceptions of the One, but they may also grasp at Him despite so.
May the Lord make these ribs of iron and this soul of blood.
Often the decrepit state of a particular place or practice, say burial, is not an accident of poverty alone; if one buries men on top of one another whilst land is plentiful, poverty of coin is only one factor, often it is a poverty of spirit and imagination, for when there is enough of the latter, one discovers dignity even in times otherwise sepulchral.
Intention: sometimes one has to suspend movement until an aberrant condition has passed before one commits to a particular action; for doing the same act under misplaced internal convictions will nullify the results — causing Janus to crack in the middle.
While sometimes the action must be done regardless, one must be aware that doing good without meaning good is not a harmless state.
When the soul falls at the intersection of the nodal and the celestial it is often the case, God willing, that certain filaments of created but true thoughts can be felt in one’s very hands, thoughts felt by many another centuries ago, millennia ago.
The Master chastens with any method he prefers — it is not for one to discriminate which is paramount.
There are neither kings nor beggars when one bends the knees never to straighten them again.
The books speak amongst themselves and the unbroken carries the shattered on its back for the journey is same and arduous, but the shards of the broken carve open the skin of the unbroken, which remains so in its essence, in material, but not in form.
The extremes are for sensible madness, not for proliferation.
Voluntarily accepting an extreme is not virtuous while being crushed towards an extreme is — so, the cave must be adopted out of necessity only, and not all are in need in equal measure.
One must imagine that Snegurochka once laughed and smiled, with light in her eyes — she may yet melt, or she may remain solid, enduring an endless winter — even when stood straight on her two feet — Perov was the one who cast her neck askew, tilting forwards, sideways.
The law remains an instrument to nurture the soul, it is a failsafe, the surface of the springboard, better to remain suspended so high in the sky that the thought of descending below the law never becomes a possibility.
As the Master does not account for what is beyond one’s grasp, failures of reason to arrive at certainty are only intellectual offenses, not spiritual ones.※※For the Lord is not like man.
Sometimes the historian exaggerates his own importance by rejecting the literal explanation of words when the alternative is clearly an attempt to push the boundaries for the sake of extension.
One must rejoice in the fractures in their faith above all, rather than revel in unearned certainty.
It may very well be wise to hold fast to certain uncertainty, which itself has predictable pillars.
The ancients constructed their entire world-views from cosmology and physics because they frequently looked up.
Safety is always an illusion — helpful but just that.
If man is lucky, he may experience the loss of all his physical senses whilst still alive — better if it is temporary.
The crow glides on a still day, waltzing on air.
Undirected laments are acceptable.
When thought becomes ossified to the point there is little warmth left in its carcass, there is a tendency to create idols of men who lived, did well in their times, to cast them as having answers to everything, to treat them as prophets — what a waste.
The devil struggles to find seating in simplistic forms and matter.
Be awash with ruin, to heal the weeds of slavery pulling into the Earth.
“For the iniquity of his covetousness was I wroth, and smote him: I hid me, and was wroth, and he went on frowardly in the way of his heart. I have seen his ways, and will heal him: I will lead him also, and restore comforts unto him and to his mourners,” and so it shall be for the ruinous.
Radical compression makes one more than a man, or less than — the outcome depends on grace.
Is the soil not oppressed when the hoofs of man pound on it?
Field’s eighteen nocturnes are an epitome of proper attention.
Orientalism is often in content, not method — if one plucks a thorned rose and gets scraped in the process, the rose is hardly to be blamed.