Quotes

Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods.

Wearing a hijab isn’t inherently liberating – but neither is baring one’s breasts. What is liberating is being able to choose either of these things. It’s pretty ludicrous to think that oppression is somehow proportional to how covered or uncovered someone’s body is. Both sides of this argument present a shallow understanding of women’s empowerment, which only drowns out the substantive challenges facing all women – issues that cannot be encapsulated in a debate about a piece of fabric.

Luciferianism is a belief system that venerates the essential characteristics that are affixed to Lucifer. The tradition, influenced by Gnosticism, usually reveres Lucifer not as the Devil, but as a liberator or guiding spirit (often associated with the Greek Prometheus) or even the true god as opposed to Jehovah.
Luciferianism is identified by some people as an auxiliary of Satanism, due to the popular identification of Lucifer with Satan. Some Luciferians accept this identification or consider Lucifer the light bearer aspect of Satan. Others reject it, arguing that Lucifer is a more positive ideal than Satan.

I want to just address some assumptions someone made concerning my beliefs. William Blake says of one of his enemies:

We both read the Bible day and night,
But he reads black where I read white.

I do not identify myself as a Christian. Can you imagine the Pope and I having a fruitful conversation? No. The Catholic Church is one of the forces that fuels humanity’s suicidal over-population of the planet. Anyone who says they’re Pro-Life is ultimately Pro-Human-Extinction .But I am open to any spiritual idea, and I’d like to be able to include some of the Bible’s parables as places where I might find wisdom. The notion of being taught how to interpret the Bible by a priest who believes he knows what the words mean and we don’t is repugnant and grotesque. I would never put my soul into the hands of a priest,of any faith. I’ve seen ‘em. They’re filthy,stained by history. Like Blake,I’ll read the Holy Books with my own eyes and make up my own mind about what use I have for them, if any.

In the beat of a heart, the suck of a breath, you are the universe.

I had an auto-repair man once, who, on these intelligence tests, could not possibly have scored more than 80, by my estimate. I always took it for granted that I was far more intelligent than he was. Yet, when anything went wrong with my car I hastened to him with it, watched him anxiously as he explored its vitals, and listened to his pronouncements as though they were divine oracles – and he always fixed my car.
Well, then, suppose my auto-repair man devised questions for an intelligence test. Or suppose a carpenter did, or a farmer, or, indeed, almost anyone but an academician. By every one of those tests, I’d prove myself a moron, and I’d be a moron, too. In a world where I could not use my academic training and my verbal talents but had to do something intricate or hard, working with my hands, I would do poorly. My intelligence, then, is not absolute but is a function of the society I live in and of the fact that a small subsection of that society has managed to foist itself on the rest as an arbiter of such matters.
Consider my auto-repair man, again. He had a habit of telling me jokes whenever he saw me. One time he raised his head from under the automobile hood to say: “Doc, a deaf-and-mute guy went into a hardware store to ask for some nails. He put two fingers together on the counter and made hammering motions with the other hand. The clerk brought him a hammer. He shook his head and pointed to the two fingers he was hammering. The clerk brought him nails. He picked out the sizes he wanted, and left. Well, doc, the next guy who came in was a blind man. He wanted scissors. How do you suppose he asked for them?”
Indulgently, I lifted my right hand and made scissoring motions with my first two fingers. Whereupon my auto-repair man laughed raucously and said, “Why, you dumb jerk, He used his voice and asked for them.” Then he said smugly, “I’ve been trying that on all my customers today.” “Did you catch many?” I asked. “Quite a few,” he said, “but I knew for sure I’d catch you.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Because you’re so goddamned educated, doc, I knew you couldn’t be very smart.”

I distrust your cleverness. You make wonderful patterns—everything is in its place—it looks convincingly clear—too clear. And meanwhile, where are you? Not on the clear surface of your ideas, but you have already sunk deeper, into darker regions—so that one only thinks one has been given all you thought, one only imagines you have emptied yourself in that clarity. But there are layers, and layers—you’re bottomless, unfathomable. Your clearness is deceptive. You’re the thinker who arouses the most confusion in me, most doubts, most disturbances.

“The Whole of Yourself is certainly an Irrational Entity, but this is just Precisely Yourself… Unique & Unrepeatable”.

The Dionysian is no picnic. It is the chthonian realities which Apollo evades, the blind grinding of subterranean force, the long slow suck, the murk and ooze. It is the dehumanizing brutality of biology and geology, the Darwinian waste or bloodshed, the squalor and rot we must block from consciousness to retain our Apollonian integrity as persons. Western science and aesthetics are attempts to revise this horror into imaginatively palatable form.

Why are all the gods such vicious cunts? Where is the god of tits and wine?