#they burst into laughter all the time and think the western people is just pitiful to laugh at

[uchiha-family-for-the-winny]

Casually runnning into a post: Sasuke cared more about Meno than Sakura.

As if he didn’t call her name so desperately as if he wasn’t in despair or fear for not finding her or how he kept saying her name as she was unconscious from the poison and healing her.

But sure yeah. Sasuke only cared for his dino buddy more than his own wife. 🤣

#oh these antis and their ridiculous attempts to make fun of us shippers #they're making idiots of themselves instead #i keep laughing so hard and show it in screenshots to my Japanese friends #they burst into laughter all the time and think the western people is just pitiful to laugh at #gonna show it to them tonight #sasusaku

[thepriceofbeingaroseisloneliness]

TOSHIYA AT JOE YOKOMIZO CHANNEL 4th FEB TRANSLATION/NOTES 2/4

Joe Yokomizo Channel

 Guest: Toshiya (Dir en grey)

Notes before reading: This is the translation/notes of the livestream on Joe’s Niconico channel with Toshiya as a guest last 4th February.  This is part 2. Originally, I planned to do it in two parts, but as I’m barely summarizing (I’m sorry?), it’s longer than expected, so there will be a part 3 ( maybe a 4?).  The livestream was one hour and fifty min approx. This part covers from min 47 approx., to 1h 12m.

You can watch this at Joe Yokomizo’s channel on Niconico.

Feel free to correct me if you spot any mistake or any confusing parts.

Links or credits to this post when the content is reposted or captured in other SNS are appreciated ----- (First part here) Joe: From now on, this is the members-only contents….*everyone claps* So, let’s drink… Toshiya: That’s it. Joe and Toshiya open their cans of Sapporo beer. They toast together. Toshiya: Let’s toast… Joe: Cheers! I’m really thirsty…. Toshiya: Itadakimasu…. They take a gulp of their beer. Joe: You said before that on stage you don’t feel nervous at all but at this kind of talks, you get nervous… Toshiya: I’m not good at this… Joe: You are not good at this? Toshiya: That’s it Joe: is it ok if you drink alcohol? Toshiya: isn’t that a problem? *laughs* Joe: It is… Alcohol makes people’s heart/spirit free….*Toshiya laughs* Ah,  “take off the sunglasses”, is that ok for you? Toshiya: Eh well, instead… I’m going to take my jacket off.. Joe: Oh, I see…..*Toshiya removes his jacket* Ohhhhh! Ohhhh!....there many comments calling you….like “kyaaaaa”…..have you ever made a mistake/screw up because of drinking? Toshiya: I did *laughs* Joe: You did… Toshiya: Yes… Joe: Can you say….? Toshiya: No….the truth is…..I can’t say…. Joe: You can’t tell us….you can’t tell what you did…. Toshiya: I can’t Joe: is that so? Toshiya: Yes, alcohol is  scary/dreadful… Joe: It is… this year I’m like trying to not getting carried away with alcohol….that’s my resolution for this year…. Toshiya: But well….but I never have been blackout (drunk)…. Joe: Ah, you always remember what you did…. Toshiya: I do remember… Joe: Like if you did something awful….*Toshiya nods* “Please make him drink until he tell us”….”talk about Die”…do you have any story about this with Die?.... Toshiya: Die….mmmm…I have many memories of drinking with him…. Joe: Is that so? Toshiya: Yes Joe: Like drinking after a live….after recording… Toshiya: Well, yes, after a rehearsal or so… Joe: what kind of things do you talk about with Die when you drink? Toshiya: Mostly about silly things…. Joe: Ah,  but that’s fun, right? Toshiya: That’s right… Joe: Ah, “summer memories”…..”trespassing”*….stories like that… I think that there are many stories like those mentioned at the comments… *This is a reference to the story they talked about at the livestream of May. Toshiya: That’s it…..no good… Joe: Everyone is like that….”A different story”…. A different awful story like that….”Bowling”…..what’s that about?......Bowling? Toshiya: Ah, drinking at the bowling alley….You can drink at the bowling alley, right?.... Joe: Is that so? Toshiya: Yes Joe: While you are bowling, you drink….*Toshiya nods*…. Toshiya:  That is….dangerous/risky…. Joe: At the alley? Toshiya: I threw it (the bowling ball) at the wrong lane…. Joe burst into laugh Joe: It came out (the story)!!! Toshiya: I did it at the wrong lane…. Joe: That’s awful…. Toshiya: It’s awful…. Joe: You were like….*does the gesture of throwing the ball* throwing it at the wrong lane…. Toshiya: I threw it at the lane of another person…. Joe: *laughs* That’s awful….that can cause an accident…. Toshiya: That’s true….time ago…..there is a certain senpai god-like guitarist…. Joe: I’m not going to ask who is… Toshiya: Yes….is there a type of Jack Daniels that is black?... Joe: There is…Jack Daniels…. Toshiya: We were bowling while drinking that….*Joe laughs* at the bowling alley…so somehow I didn’t know where I was throwing the bowling ball at…. They laugh Joe: Is that so? They are asking who is that guitarist….It’s a senpai… Toshiya: It’s a senpai….Die’s senpai…. Joe: Die’s senpai?.... Toshiya: It’s Die’s senpai… Joe: I wonder who is…people is writing at the comments….”Is it Sugizo?”….”C”….”S”? Toshiya: No,no… They both laugh Joe: “Joe, try to get this information” ….”A hint”…..a hint… Toshiya:  A hint?....*Joe nods*…. A hint….mmmm…that’s it….La vie en rose senpai*…. *La vie en rose is  D’ ERLANGER’s album. Die has mentioned several times D’ERLANGER guitarist Cipher, as his main influence and senpai. Joe: It’s La vie en rose’s senpai….ahhhh I see…. La vie en…..*laughs*…I have a guess….. Toshiya: Well….it’s…. Joe: Is that so? Toshiya: He is an amazing senpai…. Joe: Yes Toshiya: I think that Die excused himself and left…. Joe: Is that so? But…. those are really good times….right? Toshiya: For real…I think I was able to be in band at a great timing….because I have wonderful senpai that I respect…those senpai….how could I say it?....when I got into this band….it’s like they (senpai) treat me with affection….I feel like you can talk to them like this, so after all I asked them a lot of questions. It was that kind of time. I wanted to ask a lot of things to them so my senpai would answer….yes, that’s what my senpai would do….like “ I made a mistake with this” “don’t make that kind of mistake”…things like that. Joe:That’s important, right? Toshiya: It’s really important. So when it comes to the younger generation…..I wonder if this kind of thing is still possible (to be happening)…what a pity, right? Joe: It seems that bands from younger generations nowadays don’t even know the experience of drinking until early morning with their senpais. Toshiya: Well well……I don’t know if that it’s a good change or a bad one….*laughs* Joe: I don't know, I don't know, but there are things that can’t be helped right?.... Toshiya: There are. Joe: There are good and bad things… Toshiya: Yes yes….I think so … Joe: That’s why it’s amazing to play rock music in a band… Toshiya: After all, no matter how you think about it,  as they are people  who are experiencing something that they had never experienced before….that’s right….if I ask about something that I haven’t experienced ….like….”what did you do when you were in the same situation?”….”how about this?”….”What should I do?”…..Things like that…..it’s really interesting to hear from people who can taught you naturally…. Joe: Certainly… there are  many senpais that are just a little older that were terrible…. Toshiya: That’s true, right?....It’s strange…. Joe: Isn’t it weird? It's weird that those messed up when they were young…. Toshiya: It’s weird… Joe: But it’s not like we are going to lose in that aspect…. Toshiya: Well…..I….in that sense….I didn’t…. Joe: Is that so? Toshiya: I didn’t go too far….*laughs* Joe: But that’s ok…leave it to me… Toshiya: You may drink, but don't let the drink take over…. Joe: But you only live once so why don’t you want to mess it up?

Toshiya: Of course, that’s right….I want to mess up….that’s why there are times that you cross the line… Joe: Yes, that’s it…that’s Toshiya from Dir en grey…I'm Joe Yokomizo, no matter how you think about it, isn’t it like the name of an enemy/rival? Toshiya: *Laughs* That’s…. Joe: Isn’t it? Isn’t it weird? This combination (of people)…. Joe starts point him and Toshiya, and compares their styles. Joe: Anyway, it looks like we are free….going forward….let’s go freely… Toshiya: Free, right? I want to… Joe: Let’s go freely….that’s what I think… Toshiya: That’s it… Joe: How are the rest of the members doing recently? Like, at the recordings or if you talk by phone… Toshiya: Well, I met them at the time of the recording… Joe: I met Kaoru quite often cause we are doing a youtube program *Toshiya nods* But how are the other members doing? Like please, an information report about them! Toshiya: They are alive… Joe: *laughs* Well, that’s good.... Toshiya: Yes, they are alive… Joe: I see….all of them are alive….how is the mysterious/enigmatic Shinya doing? Toshiya: He is alive… Joe: He is alive… Toshiya: Shinya is certainly mysterious but….all members are quite mysterious right? Joe: Who is….Who is the most mysterious? Toshiya: I think everyone… Joe: Everyone… Toshiya: Everyone in the band is a mysterious person… Joe: Ehhhhh…..for example….what’s Kyo's most strange side? Toshiya: Well…..what it would be?....his laughter is loud…. Joe: Ohhhh is that so? Toshiya: I would say that, he is loud when he laughs….well, he is the kind of person that has differences between his outside and inside… Joe:   Being loud when they laugh and control a conversation, (it’s normal) as he is from Kansai*…. * Kansai is the western region of the main Japanese island of Honshu. It included  famous cities like Osaka, Kobe, Kyoto and Nara.

Toshiya: It’s not because of that though…..how could I say it?....he likes comical stuff ….after all, all of them except me are from Kansai…. Joe: That’s right… Toshiya: The standards there (kansai) are tough…. Joe: Are they? Toshiya: They are… Joe: The laughter standards over there are really high…. Toshiya: That’s it… Joe: On the other hand, is Kyo an enthusiast of films and so? Toshiya: He is… Joe: Like,  He watches a lot….ehhhh…..so Kyo is strict about comical stuff….what about Die? What’s his mysterious/strange side? Toshiya: What would it be?  He is a blood type B person so, when he is interested/enthusiastic about something he goes for it, but when he is not interested he is like “ehhhh”*hand gesture of I pass* everyone is like that but, blood type B people*.... when they like something they go for it but if something distracts them from that, the interest goes away…. *In Japanese culture, it is believed that a person’s blood type is an essential indicator of their personality. Joe: What is your blood type? Toshiya: B. Joe: B…. Toshiya: Everyone is B except the band’s leader Kaoru who is blood type A…. Joe: I see…Ah, we talked about that in a live stream…my blood type is B too…that’s amazing…that there is only B type… Toshiya: He is surrounded by B type…. Joe: He is…. is Kaoru affected by that?.... Toshiya: I don’t know but….I think he looks more like B type… Joe: Kaoru?....Ahhh I can understand that… Toshiya: I think that you can feel it….like me being poisoned/infected by the Kansai dialect….. Joe: He is poisoned/infected by the B type…. Toshiya: A bit….it looks like it….but he is the type of  person that wants to know everything…. Joe: Kaoru? Toshiya: Yes, he is that kind of person…like…he wants to know anything related to Dir en grey… Joe: I see…well, he is the leader after all… Toshiya: Yes, I’m thankful for that… I am…. Joe: What about Shinya? The mysterious Shinya… Toshiya: Shinya? To put it simply…”self-conceit/self centered”… Joe:  That’s Shinya in a word… Toshiya: He has only-child vibes…. Joe: Ah, certainly…that’s it….Would you like to play a board game with him? Toshiya: Before this, at the end of last year, for the fanclub… Joe: Ah, you played you played, that’s true…. Toshiya: I played with Die and Shinya…it was interesting… Joe: It was? Next time, around spring, I asked Shinya to come and play a game… Toshiya: That’s good… Joe: Do you want to join us at that time? Toshiya: No,no…I won’t get involved…. Joe: If there aren’t any other members,  the conversation is going to be different… Toshiya: It’s going to be different….I think that it’s better that there aren’t any other members there, so he is going to talk  more… Joe: He is considerate with the others….I wonder if it is consideration…. Toshiya: I wonder…. Joe: “ I like Toshiya-Shinya duo”….they are writing that…. Toshiya: Ahh Joe: Do you guys go drinking together? Toshiya:  Go drinking…..more like eating together at work and so…and….when we are on a tour…. he and I were the only ones who usually go to lunch and so… Joe: I see…more like fortuitous (by chance) situations…. Toshiya: That’s it…. Joe: One of the things that makes Dir en grey interesting is no matter which members you combine, it feels strange…. Toshiya: That’s true….somehow…in a strange sense…..every speaks broken/imperfect Japanese…. Joe: *Laughs* It’s not only me…. I think that feeling is super cool…. Toshiya: Somehow….after more than 20 years….we’ve been together for a while but….I would say that they are still mysterious/unknown people for me….I think they are interesting people, though…. Joe: In the end, you were the last person…. Toshiya: To join them (the band)…. Joe: To join them….I want to ask you about that….Who was the first person  you spoke to? who did you talk to?.... Toshiya: Originally, they were playing together in a band before….at first, I just talked with Kyo about doing a band… Joe: I see Toshiya: We were about to disband each other’s bands so it was like….”let’s play together”…..at that moment, they were looking for a member….and after that,  the other three members followed…. Joe laughs Joe: You talked with Kyo about doing a band together but, what kind of image did you have of him? Toshiya: Well, I don’t know….at that time, it felt like an attraction force….like “Oh, this person is amazing”….like “it’s the first time I’ve met someone like this”…. Joe: Ehh…..”Ask him about the snow”…..”in the snow”…..they are writing that….is that related Kyo? Toshiya: Ahh….it was to do with the other members….all of them….they came to my hometown….there was a livehouse called Nagano J….well it still exists but it’s at a different place…at that time it was at the East exit of the station…..it was there where I played with them for the first time…. Joe: “Normal tires”….is that an important part of that story? Toshiya: *Laughs* They came driving with normal tires… Joe: That’s dangerous…. Toshiya: Yes, there were lots of snow…. Joe: That’s bad…they weren’t organized with that? Toshiya: They weren’t and in the end, it’s really a region with heavy snowfalls…. Joe: As expected from Kansai people… Toshiya: But they were really cute….it doesn’t snow often in Kansai right? Joe: Barely… Toshiya: They started touching it, squealing, and doing crunching sound walking…. Joe imitates them, squealing and bouncing. Joe: That’s reaaaaaally…..nice right? Toshiya: It was so like…..”it feels good”…. Joe: Kyo too? Toshiya: Everyone… Joe: I would love to have seen that…. Toshiya: That difference between how they look and how they are inside…..it’s amazing…. Joe: That’s really good…. Toshiya: I think it’s fascinating…. Joe: But as you said….as we saw in the previous live footage….isn’t it like they totally were different people? Toshiya: When we all get off stage… all of us are just ordinary old men…..*laughs* Joe: I wouldn’t say that you are ordinary old men…. Toshiya: Ordinary old men…. Joe: No,no,no…how do you change that much when you get on stage? Toshiya: I don’t know….it’s like a switch….I think it’s interesting… Joe: It is….that’s the power of the music…..the power of the audience….

Toshiya: Both, right? Joe: Both things….”Isn’t there a picture of that moment”….they are asking that…. Toshiya: There is, there is…. Joe: Eeeeh? Is there? Toshiya: There is….it’s at my parents home….but I’m not going to show it… Joe: A picture of everyone being “kyaaa” with the snow? Toshiya: It’s true…. Joe: Let’s make it public someday… Toshiya: No,no ….it’s not only me in that photo…. Joe tries to convince Toshiya to show the pic someday but he insists that it’s not only him in the picture. Joe: I’m going to ask for permission….I’m going to ask for permission and if all members are ok with it…. Toshiya: It won’t happen…. Joe: Is that so? … They are saying “please” at the comments….”At the fanclub newsletter”…. Toshiya: I see…. You all behave like spoiled kids…. Joe burst into laugh and stands Joe: It came out (the real Toshiya)! He said “spoiled kids”…..the alcohol is already hitting….”spoiled kids!!”….”Please Joe”…..I’m going to negotiate with him….I’m going to do my best….I’m spoiled too but I’m going to do my best….if they give us permission…..maybe you can show it at the fc newsletter or some place like that…. Toshiya: That’s it….I’m going to show that picture to the rest of the members and if they are ok with it….I will reveal it… Joe: I think that probably I won’t have the chance to meet the other members so….you should let me to keep in custody that picture….*Toshiya laughs* it’s dangerous…. Toshiya: You would be the first one to…. Joe: It could get leaked suddenly… Toshiya: No way, no way, no way…. Joe: *Laughs* You are not drunk yet…. Toshiya:No,no…. I think it’s funnier to imagine the picture… Joe: Everyone, imagine that picture, we are going to show today another picture anyway…. Toshiya: Imagine that Dir en grey….those five people…. Joe: That Dir en grey like “ah, this is what snow is….” Toshiya: Not five people….Not me….imagine that four people…. Joe: Did you take the picture? Toshiya: It was my mother who took it…. Joe: I see. Isn't it a really another good story?....Toshiya’s mom took the picture of those five people playing cutely with the snow…I hope that one day that picture is revealed… Toshiya: It’s scary…. Joe: It is…..I’m looking forward to that… ….. Joe: Talking about pictures, everyone has pictures at the gallery of their phones but today we are showing a strange picture that Toshiya has in his cell phone! Let’s show it…. A strange picture from Toshiya… The picture appears on screen. Die and Shinya are at the airport playing with a baggage scale. Die is up the scale while shinya is next to him. Joe: What is this?.....where is it? Who is there?.....please explain it a bit…. Toshiya: It’s Shinya and Die…. Joe: Shinya is the one at the front, and Die is the person who is up (the scale)…. Toshiya: This is at Saint Petersburg’s airport in Russia. We have already checked in so we have already dropped our luggage too….so when I looked I was like “ahhh? What are these two doing?”….so, that’s where you weight your luggage….and they were weighing themselves…. Joe burst into laugh. Toshiya: When you take your eyes off… it’s like “Are they children?”…. Joe: That’s it….it’s like they are the same than the ones who played with the snow… Toshiya: They are cute people…. Joe: Two blood type B doing as they please…. Die did it first and then Shinya…they were like….”ohh X kilos”….. Toshiya: Yes, Die was like “how much?” and then “Do you want to try, Yamo chan?”…. Joe: They did it together? After this, Shinya step up….if you look at this, they look as cute as in the other stories… Toshiya: You said so, I didn’t… Joe: I’m sorry…Can we do as if you didn’t hear what I just said? So, Kaoru and Kyo too…..they didn’t take part in this…it was just these two… Toshiya: They didn’t….just them…. Joe: This is what happens often when you are not looking at them… Toshiya: This happens often…. Joe:  Everyone can’t imagine that just listening to what you say…. Toshiya: *Laughs* That’s it….it’s really amusing….really amusing… Joe: It is…..it’s really a precious photo this one…. (Third part here)

#dir en grey #toshiya #Joe Yokomizo #Joe Yokomizo channel #translation #niconico #livestream #toshiyatranslations

[asscreeds]

Heila - Chapter 4

thank you again to @freyastrider​ for letting me yoink your screenshots :’D

TW for graphic descriptions of violence & death. Read on AO3 | Masterlist

The cool midday wind blew from the North, hastening the journey by longship, and Eivor thanked the Gods for their favor today. Curled up at the Wolf's feet, Nali hissed at Dag almost comically when he had boarded, scarcely recognizing the man, making Eivor chuckle. Not even five minutes into the journey, Dag started up another one of his stories, and Eivor did not realize how much she had missed the man's silly tales until her crew burst out into laughter at something absurd he said, the Wolf-Kissed joining in heartily.

Four hours passed and they had just passed Roucistere. By then the sun had sunk further into the sky, sending its rays into everyone's eyes and turning the sky and eastern sea a beautiful gold. Were it any other day, Eivor would have found the scenery beautiful, yet even with Dag's stories and the lightheartedness of the journey as her and her vikingr were reunited on the ship once again, she could only think of the battle ahead and prayed that it would go smoothly. 

Thinking back to your sobbing form made her heart squeeze with some unknown emotion; she could not decide if it was pity or something else. The name 'Gunnar' stuck in her mind. Who was the man to you? Part of your clan, obviously, but what was he to you? A companion? Brother? Lover, maybe? Despite her trailing thoughts she surmised it was not for her to know and began chastising herself for even pondering. It was not important to her; what mattered was honoring her promise to you and seeing that he and the others were returned to you safely.

As they pulled into the docks, Eivor could see a few of her men that had been sent forward earlier in the day had already set up a small camp above the beach, higher on the hillside where the two-dozen horses could graze and rest. Jumping from the lypting of the ship to the dock she bid her vikingr follow her up the hill to the forward camp, the raiders most grateful for being able to stretch their legs after the journey. 

As they gathered about the campfire, she called for their attention. "From what the scouts have told, the Danes are being held to the southwest of the barracks, near the most open portion of the city. There is a northern gate near the barracks that leads to the heart of the city that we will rush through. If two or three could ride forward to fire arrows and slay the gate's guards, we will catch them off guard and ride forward with little problems. The issue lies in exiting the city once we have freed the Danes, as the northern gate will be undoubtedly crowded with the soldiers from the barracks. We may either leave by the most western yet farthest gate, or the closer eastern gate - it depends on how the guards will react. Whatever happens, stick together," she explained, and her vikingr nodded, some cheering. Before letting them mount the horses she added in one final thing: "Remember, these are people who have been scarcely fed for days and been treated as animals. There is a very low chance that they will be able to defend themselves if they are targeted - load them onto the backs of your horses, then ride as fast as you can. Do not engage in battle unless you must, if you are outnumbered or are blocked from pushing forward. If all goes well we will overwhelm them with the suddenness of our attack and we will be able to slip in and out with little issue."

Then she let them go, and they each mounted a horse, standing near the mouth of the road waiting for her to lead them. To her surprise she found her personal mount among the horses; Askr, the rowdy, black destrier stallion she had purchased from Rowan a few months ago, whom she had just recently bonded with enough to be able to ride him into the heart of battle. Patting his nose, she mumbled, "I pray to Thor that you will not suddenly turn your heart in the middle of this and buck me," and then took her seat in his rune-inscribed saddle. The horse only gave her a side-eye and snorted.

Walking Askr forward to the road, she raised her fist to the sky, looking at the vikingr. "To Canterbury!" she cried, and the resounding war cries of the warriors hastened their mounts forward into a comfortable gallop on the stone road. By now the sun had eased down into the horizon, and they would reach the city hopefully just in time for the gap in guard rotation as the day rota switched for the night. 

Even in the dim light of dusk Eivor could still see the steeples of the church rise into the sky as they rode over the hill, and then Eivor pulled them all to a slow trot. Much to her delight, they had just begun lighting torches for the night and even from a distance she could see only one lone guard at the northern gate. Looking over and nodding to an archer, she sent them forward to deal with him before they rushed in and the guard could call for help. "Light your torch near the gate once you have dealt with him." One Norseman would only puzzle him, instead of seeing an entire raiding party descending down the hill like a flood.

By now the last light of the sun had nearly gone, and the sky turned a deep indigo as the first stars began to shine and the slim crescent moon began to rise higher. For what was about to transpire, it was such an incredibly calm night; a gentle breeze, the soft chorus of crickets, the hooting of an owl nearby. As they crested over the hill in definite eyesight of any eagle-eyed guardsmen she saw the torch of the archer being waved around near the gate; their signal. Bidding Askr into a canter, she and her warriors rode forth to the gate, meeting with the archer that had remounted their horse. The breach was quiet, and though the thunder of the horses' steps were a dead giveaway, it seemed that scarcely anyone had noticed their arrival. Good.

 Things did not go so smoothly once they rounded the corner to the area where the Danes were kept. Almost instantly four or five guards jumped up with weapons drawn from where they had been conversing around a table, and Eivor could only give a smirk as she and a few others drew their bows back to release a volley of arrows upon the men, not missing a single mark. They quickly fell, and she rushed forward to the imprisoned Danes. Despite their cages being secured with a lock and her nor the guards having the key for them they bent and broke easily enough. Drawing out her torch and stepping forward into the cage she was met by sad, sunken eyes that should have never belonged to any human being. Slowly, she approached them.

"I have been sent by y/n to rescue you. We will help you to mount the horses, take you to our longship and to Ravensthorpe where you will be fed and bathed," she said quietly, and immediately some burst into tears, rejoicing, others staring ahead quietly afraid. In all there were only maybe a dozen of them, four women and eight men divided into separate cages, all as visibly ill as the next. She did not ask any of them for their names.

As the fifth Dane was paired to a horse, a patrol rounded the corner to the clearing, and Eivor felt the rush of adrenaline blanket her mind. They were met with swift swords to their shields almost instantaneously as her vikingr beat them back away from the Danes, and the shouting from the conflict seemed to wake the entire city. Another two Danes were paired, and suddenly the church's bells began to ring, splitting the calm air of the night in two. Shit.

Moving as fast as she could she lifted a large man with bright blue eyes to rival her own onto her shoulders, placing him on the back of her horse. The man groaned with the movement and in her torchlight she could see dried bloodstains about his torso; another sad victim. She bid him to wait, leading Askr a few paces away in a shadowed alleyway between buildings to hide, and then ran back to the others to continue to pair the ninth, tenth, and eleventh Dane.

By now many of the Saxon guardsmen knew what was happening and descended upon the warriors like fighting dogs, and though the Raven Clan had a mounted advantage they were beginning to be pushed back into the clearing. Some had already fled, beginning the ride back to the longship. Eivor prayed that they would not be followed. 

 Grabbing the final Dane was where things went sour. An arrow flew right into the eyesocket of a Danish woman, who fell limp in the saddle and shocked the warrior at the front with the sudden dead weight at their back. More heavily-armored guards rushed in from the barracks and were poking and slashing at the horses chests, spooking them; little by little they were losing ground and precious time. The last prisoner secured, and with a final push from the guards, Eivor mounted Askr and commanded her warriors to follow her and run. They galloped higher into the city, heading towards the eastern gate with hopes of escaping cleanly - unfortunately, these guards were intelligent and had swarmed not only the east gate, but all other exits, too. They were penned in. 

Eivor could not see any other solution. Pushing Askr into a hard gallop she rode forward as archers stationed in the barbican above the gate released their arrows and the Wolf-Kissed had raised her shield just in time to prevent them from piercing her and the man's flesh. Some others were not so lucky nor swift enough. Three more Danes were struck by arrows. In the pause of archers knocking arrows again her vikingr rushed behind her, yet this time the arrows were set aflame. The portcullis was still open, thankfully, though beset by a formidable wall of soldiers.

They would fall and be trampled just as any other.

Galloping forward in the final stretch Askr's chest connected with the unfortunate men in the path of destruction, hooves pounding on their bones as if wading through water. What a good horse. Thankfully, he was never wounded by the effort. Taken aback by the feat most archers did not fly their arrows a second time, and those that did scarcely hit their target. Nobody was injured that time. The other horses followed close behind and soon there was a pretty pile of corpses lying near the mouth of the portcullis like a disgusting blanket.

Exiting the city and breaching the cold night of Cent made Eivor release a breath she did not know she was holding, the shock of adrenaline still hitting her hard. She definitely was not going to do that again any time soon. Glancing behind her to check they were not followed, she opted to take the quickest route to the longship; regardless if someone came after them they would still board the ship as quickly as they could. 

 She decided to try and talk to the man on her horse, just as she'd done to you. "What is your name?"

The man stirred slowly, as if he did not recognize that he was being talked to. He could not focus on much past the way his body felt as if it were being carried forward by a valkyrie, mounted on her horse and riding towards Valhalla. "G-Gunnar," he croaked, and Eivor nearly choked on the cool night air. Ah.

Looking behind her at the state of the man, she realized he was in a far worse state than you were when she'd rescued you. His eyes were clouded, unfocused, dried blood seeped down from a wound at the center of his forehead; he was weak, with the way he barely clung onto the Wolf-Kissed's smaller frame despite being heads taller than her. There were the dried blood stains at his middle, too, and she could not guess where those wounds came from.

She prayed to all the Gods she could think of, even those that she did not revere, that he would stay alive long enough to make it to Ravensthorpe.

"Alright, Gunnar. I am Eivor. We're taking you and your clan to a safer place." The ride to the ship felt much longer than riding from it, despite being the same route.

Gunnar would seemingly gain awareness some moments, holding tighter to Eivor's waist and groaning in pain, and then completely lose it at others, falling limp at her back and scaring her each time thinking that the man had passed.

Only one time did he address her. "Y/n sent you…?"

"Yes, she did," Eivor said, and the beach and her longship were in her sight. Nobody was followed. Five of her raiders and their paired Danes had already boarded the ship, keeping it still to the harbor even in the night's high tide.

Gunnar let out a breathy wheezing sound. "Ah, she's alive…" he said, and Eivor could hear the smile in his voice despite everything. "Alive…"

Slowing Askr down to a trot they approached the longship, the tide rising to the point where the horses were lifting their legs in the water. There were still more of her clan stationed at the forward camp; they would return the horses to Ravensthorpe after they departed. Dismounting the horse, she grabbed Gunnar by the waist, laying the large man over her shoulders and carrying him to the ship. He could not find the strength to sit up on the seats. Eivor slowly lowered him against the side of the ship, propping him up. 

Taking a headcount, every single one of her drengr survived; out of the dozen Danes they rescued, five would not live. 

Jumping to the lypting again she commanded the ship be turned round and the sail raised. The sea's wind roared, boosting the speed of their getaway, though it would not hold over the river Thames as they passed Roucistere. The night's calm northern breeze did little to bend the cloth of the sails, so it was lowered. 

 At some point, Gunnar roused again. Nali had curled at his bloodied side and was purring furiously, and the man gently petted the cat, in another spell of awareness. "Hello, little friend of Freyja," he spoke, spooking Eivor.

"You are awake, Gunnar. Are you feeling better after a bit of rest?" Eivor asked, grasping at anything to keep the hope of this man reaching Ravensthorpe alive.

"No," came his simple answer, looking up towards Eivor. Blood began oozing from the corners of his mouth and his nose. Immediately Eivor rushed to his side, and all her warriors turned their heads, and upon seeing why the Wolf-Kissed acted so suddenly, they understood. 

Gunnar could only look to Eivor still with an unreadable expression. Taking a cloth from her pouch she began wiping away at the blood, though it continued to run and run, and then Gunnar smiled at the Wolf-Kissed's efforts. In the calmness of the moonlight and Gunnar's awareness she realized how bright his eyes were and how they crinkled at the corners when they were not clouded with pain. Grabbing her hand, he willed her to stop.

"It is no use. I am a dying man," he said, and then let out a great, wheezing cough to drive the point home. Blood still ran from his mouth, down the scraggly hairs of his beard, onto the front of his tunic. Eivor stared, wide-eyed, her own heartbeat pounding in her ears as she stared at the fading man. 

"...What would be your last wishes, drengr?" she asked, and Gunnar picked Nali up from his side and set her down farther away, and though Nali only weighed not even a stone it was a great effort for the man, who then fell limp after. 

Gunnar seemed to pause, taking in wheezing breaths, thinking of the many answers he could give. Avenge my clan. Slay Frederik. Send word to my wife and daughter in Denmark of my death. Above all he chose one.

"Keep y/n safe," he rasped, suddenly reaching for Eivor's hand and holding it firm. "Keep her safe. Keep this clan safe. There is nothing else left of us.

"I have known her since we were children. Like a brother. I have cared for her as I have cared for my own blood. She is the voice of reason that kept us all bound together in times of strife. I could not protect her when I swore I would. I have known I would die this way for months, yet I did all I could to fight against it. For her. Please, keep her safe. In this world, and the next," he said, and his cryptic words both puzzled and troubled Eivor.

Eivor nodded, and squeezed the man's hand. "I heed your dying words. I will protect her to the ends of the earth."

Slowly, like the moon's face dwindling away as the sun rose each morning, he faded, the light in his eyes dying with him, and he went with a calm exhale into the night air. Eivor set his hand upon his lap and closed his eyelids. He would be given a proper burial, though where, she did not know. It was for you to decide.

The rest of the journey was in silence.

...

You had spent the better part of the day anxious, uneasy, unable to rest like Valka had wanted you to. To keep your mind distracted she asked you of your homeland, to which you gave mostly simple answers, and eventually you grew so anxious you had to pace. Scarcely moving around for days except to relieve yourself made your body shriek in pain with the effort of moving that you would have collapsed if Valka had not caught you. She scolded you like a mother would a child, and then you'd begged her like a child (much to her amusement) for her to help you relearn to walk.

After an hour and some more food and drink you were able to hold your own weight again, and after two more you could walk, albeit slowly, without the strain of the sliced muscles in your back bothering you too much. Valka took you to the pond behind her hut, and you revelled in the sound of the waterfall, and though the movement pained you enough to cry you could not stop yourself from cupping the fresh water in your hands and splashing it in your face. Valka laughed and said she could draw you a bath later. You stayed there for a while, until the sun began to hang lower in the sky, and then you noticed peculiar wisps of light that you've never seen before - catching one you found it was some type of delightful insect that held light within its body, and you let it be free again.

By now your stomach growled with hunger and you slowly raised yourself off the ground and went back into the hut where Valka had already gotten the two of you fresh bowls of soup and bread. Ever grateful you ate quickly, feeling a little calmer after the day. After you ate Valka drew a bath for you, and though the water was lukewarm to ease the pain of your injuries you were grateful to be able to clean the layers of sweat off your body. Valka helped you with the areas that you could not reach, even helping to wash and rinse your hair, and not once did you feel uncomfortable with your nakedness in front of the other woman. It felt natural, in a way, and you surmised she wouldn't really care, anyway. After redressing your wounds, you were surprised by her giving you a freshly-washed, simple chemise, made of soft linen and about ankle length, saying that "It would be easier on your body to sleep warmer, yet not be inhibited by heavier clothing," referring to the men's trousers and tunic you had been dressed in as a prisoner.

Then Valka made you more of the sleepy tea, and you fell asleep before the sun had even set. Thankfully you did not have a nightmare this time, and were back to the normal nonsensical dreams that you would never be able to recall come waking up.

Your sleep, however, was disturbed by the sound of a horn being blown, your mind instantly connecting the sound to Frederik’s horn, and you were sent into a minor panic before you remembered who was blowing the horn. It was not Frederik coming to face you, nor were you back on his longship heading to the monastery; it was Eivor, bringing the remnants of your clan to you. Adrenaline fueled you and you leapt from the bed, frightening Valka who had not yet fallen asleep and she rushed to your side, bidding you to return to bed, but you could not. You had to see Gunnar, you had to see your kinsmen. Limping forward a few paces out into the cold air of the night Valka ran back to her hut and returned with her heavy fur cloak, gently setting it about your shoulders so that you did not freeze.

You walked past the stables, down the western side of the longhouse, past numerous buildings you did not know the purpose of and saw several people getting off the longship. And even in the dark of the night you could see bodies being lifted onto stretchers, and your heart dropped. Some deep, deep, ugly part of you hoped that they were Eivor's warriors and not yours, to no avail. There were five of them, and you rushed forward, stumbling, and in the light of the torches you tried to make out faces.

A hand was felt on your shoulder, preventing you from toppling over, and you turned to face Eivor, who looked at you with a somber, defeated face. You did not like that look, nor the way you were turned away from looking at the final body of your kin. You could only stare silently into the Wolf's eyes.

"Y/n, I…" Eivor started, unsure of the right words to say. She sighed, and then took hold of both of your shoulders and squeezed. "I am sorry," was all she said, pulling you closer to her chest in comfort. You did not like her tone and what it meant. You could not make yourself move to match the warmth of her hug. The entire clan had gathered, but they were all silent.

Slowly, she let you go, and you turned around to look at the bodies. You could recognize the pallid faces of poor Lissi, and Jørgen, and Erna, Nils…

 And then there was Gunnar, stiff and pale, blood staining the cloth of his tunic all around, and you froze, your mind not processing what you were looking at. And then you drew in a great breath and wailed, a painful, broken-hearted sound pulled from your throat like a bow running harshly across the strings of an instrument. You dropped to your knees, crawling closer to the man's body and pressing the palms of your hands to his cold cheeks, sobbing and gasping for breath. like a madwoman over his body, willing your hot tears that fell onto his face to bring him back to life. Why was he to die like this? Away from his family? His home? He did not even die in battle. He did not deserve this death. You hunched over his body, still sobbing, pressing his cold forehead to yours and then closed your eyes, and prayed that he would find his way out of Hel's domain to where he belonged, seated with the other einherjar in Valhalla. Maybe guided by a valkyrie, maybe out of his own will. 

When you pulled away you were now weeping silently, and you could not bring yourself to look at the bodies of the rest, nor look at the faces of those that were alive, passing by you as they were carried to the barracks. You instead looked out into the forest on the far side of the river, and you could not bring yourself to move even as Eivor's men began to haul the stretchers away. 

The Wolf-Kissed approached you, slowly, and set her palm on your shoulder again. "He passed peacefully, facing the moon and stars. His wounds were too dire for him to go on," she said, and you rose from kneeling on the ground, her hand on your shoulder a wonderful feeling keeping you grounded in reality. You could not speak, only staring ahead still. Eivor stayed by your side, silent for a moment.

"He… he called for me to protect you, to keep you safe as his dying words," she said quietly, and this made you turn and look at her through your tear-laden lashes. Eivor's heart squeezed. "I promised to him that I would. And my word is my bond. I will keep you safe, until… until you decide what you want to do," she said, the last bit sounding strained, as if that was not what she truly wanted to say. This was all very sudden to your already exhausted mind.

You stared at her for a moment longer, and Eivor felt you were looking through her, not at her. Blinking some tears away you slowly turned from her, looking at the water's edge and how it reflected the moonlight, trying to clear your head. "I… he… " you began, trying to find your words and will the lump in your throat away. "H-he… he was not my blood. But we grew up together… a big brother to me," you mumbled, not truly knowing why you were telling Eivor this. "I… I cared greatly for him. I still do. I've thought before what I would do if he passed, and even that hurt, but… this is…" Snivelling, you pressed a palm to your mouth so that Eivor would not have to see the ugly way your face contorted and lip quivered as you tried to hold in another anguished cry. The woman did not think any less of you. She stood unmoving behind you. "This is… this is Frederik's fault. All of it. If he had done anything…" you croaked, the lump in your throat rising again to the point where you could not speak further nor breathe, choking on air and holding it for far too long, and Eivor set her large palm on your shoulder again. When you did not respond, she slowly pulled you into another hug, being ever mindful of the injuries at your back, and you immediately clung to her, shoving your face into her chest even though it was still armored, your head under her chin, and sobbing anew. You couldn't help it at this point. You felt like a maelstrom of emotion, waves of sorrow washing over you as you kept thinking of Gunnar's soft smile that he gave you on the longship and how it contrasted with the stillness of his pale, dead face. And then you realized how cold you were, even in Valka's coat, when the warmth of the larger woman began to seep into your body; a small comfort. Eivor shushed you gently and dared to smooth your hair out just as Valka had, and you felt yourself growing calmer in the arms of the warrior.

After some time you felt more composed, calmed, and you slowly removed yourself from Eivor as the intimacy of her consolation and promise to Gunnar hit you and you suddenly felt uncomfortable, stepping back and looking to the patterns in the wood of the docks. 

"I know Gunnar had a wife and child, back in Denmark. They should know of his passing," you said, running your fingers over the edges of Valka's cloak. Eivor nodded. "I will send a letter, then." 

Swallowing, you thought of her words earlier. Protect me until I decide what I want to do, she says… you did not see any other path. 

"You… you said that you would protect me, until I have decided to go elsewhere," you started, looking up to match Eivor's blue eyes, though difficult it may be. The woman blinked slowly and nodded. 

"I… I do not think I could go elsewhere. I do not want to return to my family, knowing that Frederik could potentially return there, too. And whatever lies he spun they would believe his words over mine. I do not have a home there, not anymore," you explained, and then broke eye contact with the drengr, feeling a burst of anger at the entire situation for a moment before you took a deep breath, sighing.

"And you… you saved my life. You and Valka, you've helped me to recover. And that is something that I feel I can never repay."

You met Eivor's blue eyes again, and even in the dim light of the moon could see how soft they've grown. "I would stay with the Raven clan, if you would let me," you said, feeling small again. Eivor blinked again, and then her expression somehow grew softer, and nodded. "Of course, y/n. You will always find a home here in Ravensthorpe, and wherever else we may go," she said, sending you a muted smile. You will always find a home with me.

You let out a breath, sighing in relief and in exhaustion, and realized how cold it had gotten when you could see it hanging in the mist, and then you felt it seep into your bones. "Th-thank you, Eivor," you shivered, and the Norsewoman took note of your state almost immediately, and on instinct pulled you to her side and began walking you back to Valka. "Of course, lagr kærr."

Passing the barracks you were relieved to see some of your kin already tended to and resting; you would speak with them tomorrow of your decision. You did not have a leader, not anymore, and it was up to them whether they wanted to leave or stay once recovered. You, however, would find a home in the Raven clan yet. 

 Valka was, as expected, not in the hut, most likely at the barracks treating the last of your friends. After such a long day both you and Eivor were exhausted, and the Wolf bid you farewell at the door, turning to go to her own place of rest. Shrugging off Valka's coat you placed it in it's usual spot and then crawled into your cot, still straining with the movement. Your body had its own celebration when you finally relaxed, and though you would certainly feel the soreness tomorrow you were glad that you still had some mobility after the wounds near your spine had become infected. You would heal in time. Closing your eyes, you fell asleep blissfully quickly.

In the shadows of the longhouse's exterior, Randvi had watched how your smaller form tucked into Eivor's as the two of you ascended to the seeress's hut, and felt an ugly twist of envy in her gut. She turned away from the scene to storm to the alliance map. She still had reports to write.  

#yall dont get a summary this time i am tired #my writing #valhalla #ac valhalla #eivor x reader #f!eivor x reader #eivor #lady eivor

[flyingsassysaddles]

TibMongol Hogwarts AU

Mongolia: 

He got a letter way out in the Gobi desert, trying to smack a goat away from eating his shirt when BOOM an owl flew into his face, making him scream for about 20 minutes in terror. He eventually got everything in order and flew out to Hogwarts, but not before he gave that damn owl the finger and threw it as far as he could chuck it (he still hates that owl btw). He arrived at the train station after getting some locals to help him, and after seeing some kids ram themselves into a pillar he shrugged “sure why not” and did the same. After a nauseating train trip (stupid moving vehicles I’d take a horse any day over this pile of death-by-crashing-waiting-to-happen), he got shoved into the main hall and sat down, alone, away from all those crazy people speaking English like it was the one true language, and then started to think that MAYBE this wasn’t such a good idea. It didn’t help that some weird bald kid kept staring at him like he was the reincarnation of Buhdda himself. His name was called anyway, and the conversation with the Sorting Hat went like this:

Sorting Hat: “Hm, hardworking, loyal, patient, all the signs of an excellent Hufflepuff-”

Mongolia: “Mr. Hat, if you put me in Hufflepuff with those weak dweebs I swear by the holy Buddha’s left pinky toe that I will tear your seams out, set them on fire, and laugh as your pitiful magical life is ended while you scream with the pain of a thousand knives stabbing into your pathetic existence.”

Sorting Hat: “SLYTHERIN IT IS!”

As soon as that matter was settled, he got put into a dorm close to a couple of other Slytherins, like Kazakhstan (best nomadic buds at first sight), North Korea (hella creepy but hey at least he cleans after himself), Oman (no idea who he is or what he’s saying but meh), and Greenland (super emo but hey he makes some pretty good points). 

He first meets Tibet when during Care of Magical Creatures and he totally flipped out after seeing a FUCKING UNICORN (it wasn’t a unicorn, it was a horse with a carrot tied onto it to make it look like a unicorn), and Tibet laughed at him just losing his mind as he goes on his knees and stare in wonder at this amazing “unicorn.” Several death threats later (you tell anyone about this I’ll DESTROY you), they started talking about magical animals and became partners in the class. One thing led to another and soon Tibet and Mongolia were doing everything together, reading, homework, chucking snowballs at China, the usual stuff. They continued to be friends throughout the first year and swore to each other on the final day that they would also be best friends for the next (Mongolia was super embarrassed at that one but hey Tibet was adorable while asking it and NO he’s no gay shut up).  

Tibet:

Tibet got his letter while he was meditating on an EXTREMELY cold mountain (he really should’ve bought a jacket) and an owl collapsed in front of him, letter in hand. He practically skipped to Hogwarts, and when he got to the train station, India accidentally slammed into him while trying to get on the train. After 10 minutes of apologies, India declared, “You will now be my friend!” and that was that. They got to Hogwarts, sat down at the table, and then started to gossip like crazy as everyone else lost their minds at the Sorting Hat talking, with quips like “Stupid westerners know jack shit about magic pffft,” and “God that Chinese guy looks like such an asshole.” Tibet couldn’t help sneaking glances at a table in the far left corner, where an intimidating, very scary boy was scowling and glaring at Tibet whenever he caught him looking. Finally, Tibet’s name was called, and the conversation with the sorting hat went a bit like this:

Sorting Hat: “Hm, determined, resourceful, cunning, a Slytherin if I ever seen-”

Tibet: “If you put me in the same house as those terrifying bastards instead of with my friend [India], I swear by ever spirit and god above that I will summon an evil demon through intense prayer and magically give you a hat-aneurysm until your felt body falls apart like a plastic bag.”

Sorting Hat: “HUFFLEPUFF!”

He and India skipped off over to their dorms where they met Nepal (BUHDDIST FRIEND), Buhtan (another BUHDDIST FRIEND), Australia (he talks weird but whatever NEW FRIEND), and weirdly, Vietnam (she is super scary holy pajamas). 

He first “met” Mongolia during Magical Creatures, and he spent the whole class staying out of sight as the scary Mongol scowled and frustratedly declared, “What in the world does SCORPION SHIT have to do with MAGIC?!” He kept trying to get close to Mongolia to try and talk to him but every time he got near him, Mongolia would glare or mutter a curse word and he would scamper off, to the annoyance of India who basically shoved him in the Mongol’s direction after class and said, “Get you little boy-crush over with already!” So Tibet was right there when Mongolia caught sight of a “unicorn” and lost his mind as Tibet tried to hide behind a tree while smothering his building laughter. He finally broke when Mongolia said, “A FUCKING ORANGE HORNED UNICORN!” and he fell on the floor howling in laughter as the Mongol stared in shock, redder than a tomato. After he was done laughing, he told Mongolia that that was not, in fact, a unicorn, but a horse with a carrot on its head, before bursting into laughter again.

 Numerous death threats and a life sworn promise to never EVER mention this to ANYONE later (Tibet told India as soon as he got back), the boys started talking about magic and why Mongolia like unicorns anyway (it’s a fucking unicorn why does it need an explanation?!). Tibet then made the internal promise to become friends with this weird and sometimes super funny Mongol, and spent the next few months pestering him at every possible moment until Mongolia begrudgingly accepted his friendship proposal (fine I’ll be your freaking friend now let me STUDY). At the end of the year, Tibet made Mongolia promise to be friends next year, and the Mongol finally agreed. Though that small smile stayed with Tibet even after he was off the train and far away from Hogwarts, and even farther from that scarred face boy with a bad temper and a gentle heart to match.           

#HOGWARTS #harry potter bitches #god damn I love this head canon #tibmongol ftw! #harry potter #tibmongol #tibet x mongolia #hetalia #aph mongolia #aph tibet #aph india #aph Kazakhstan #aph north korea #aph oman #greenland #emo greenland is totally a thing guys #the gobi desert #sorting hat #death threats to a hat #unicorn #aph china #aph nepal #aph buhtan #buhtan needs to be a thing guys #aph australia #aph Vietnam #carrots #mistakes man #why was a carrot on a horse?! - mongolia probably #gayness

[jamesdazell]

RELIGION VS ART, LITERATURE, CULTURE - (Or, How Literature Literally Lost The Plot)

1. Literature ~ I

The origin of the aesthetics of a novel are found in the Gospels, the stories of the Old Testament, Augustinian confession, Plato dialogues (who was a Proto-Christian), comedy, and the moral fable. I wondered for so long why the best novelists were the ones so well acquainted with the Bible. The novel is a thoroughly Judeo-Christian work, and since Christianity is reformation of Judaism, and Islam is the reformation of Judaism through Christian scholarship, the tradition is Islamic too. Twentieth century cinema, a practical development of the novel (not plays) have dysfunctional characters who suffer from themselves usually isolated by their neurosis and essentially are imploding across the story line. Gangster films for instance, horror films, take pleasure in pain and suffering in the sense of violence in medieval passion plays retelling the crucifixion if Christ. The pleasure in suffering. In the degeneration of a man. The very emblem of Christianity is the dead Christ on a cross. Christ who suffers for our sins. It’s unsurprising that the king directors of the mob film genre, Martin Scorsese, Brian de Palma, and Francis Ford Coppola are all Catholic. The genre springs right out of it, and the audience revelled in its violent pains as well as a joy in pessimism, ugliness, and self-deprication, as well follow their descent in to madness and disorder. Not at all like in the tragedies where we take pleasure in the strength in suffering, wisdom on account of suffering. In cinema and the novel, the characters suffer often from their own awful psychological traits (the dysfunctional psychological story is the confession before God and a quest for a redemption, the judgement before God’s eyes, a Catholic guilt), that one suffers for having sinned. Outside of the Bible this also belongs in comedy, where the idiot suffers from ignorance, and in history where the person is said to have fallen to ruin by a lack of prudence. But as time went on, comedy, history, and Christianity all merged. Worst of all, that we’re supposed to take pity on the characters. Pity: the bleakest, heaviest, weakening effect on the body, mind, and spirit there is; and yet a Christian virtue. Pity is far worse than sadness. It’s a degenerating quality that weighs down the spirit and kills off joy. There are films where the stronger our pity for the hero is, the greater we’re to perceive their heroism is even more Christian. And the story is built along the action driven by specifically Christian values and concepts of the world. Fabrications which don’t exist in the actual world. Does the plot have a dualism of good versus evil? The moral good in resentiment towards the moral evil? Does it drive by the foundation value of Christianity: resentiment, and the Christian concept of evil, a figure of immorality, which does not exist, but has hithero been the make-up of every great being on Earth. More a Julius Caesar than a Jesus Christ. One, who possessed every life affirmative instinct possible, the other, the most life degenerating instincts.

Instincts which are also in the foundation of the novel. It’s said the first novel is Cervantes’ Don Quixote. If so, that explicitly proves it: Cervantes a Catholic, written in prison (a hermit existence), a comedy written as a history, that attempts to moralise its audience, written episodically like the picaresque books. The practice of writing a novel requires a hermitage, unphysical hibernation, a kind of discarding of the body, in to an asceticism. Shutting off the world for a writing desk, and life for the imagination. The novel a Christian art form through and through. The novelist becomes confessionally introspective, but doesn’t reveal it through the dialogue, but through the psychological study of its character in the same way that Christians were supposed to keep a diary to observe and critique their moral thoughts. The novel is a really weird form of literature, it’s a medley of many low styles of writing, that don’t even really fit together. 

Even the style of language in a novel is light with a rhythm and cadence that derives from comedies like Menander and histories of Herodotus, instead of the mightier line of epic or tragedy, or even the histories written by Thucydides and Livy. Found from Aristophanes, Plato, Menander, through Apuleius, right through to Cervantes, to Tolstoy, to Garcia-Marquez. The prose style of the novel reached its perfection in the writer Leo Tolstoy. But the Latin elegiac poetry and Roman Latin prose is the best style of writing of all writers ever. It’s Tolstoy but from a totally superior level that completely detoxes Tolstoy from writing. 

Time in a novel never stands still, it shifts back and forth, abruptly, as if the author could never grip a moment. In plays and poetry the matter at hand is gripped with intensity. Time in a novel is always transient without ever putting us in the moment. I have to go to epic poems, plays, and poetry just to hold on to a moment, to really feel the weight of a moment. The plot of novels never keep me gripped because they don’t even grip themselves. There’s more done in a single soliloquy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet than in an entire novel. I want to feel the moment that the character is in, the pressure that is upon him, the choice at the crisis, his own sense of himself, his relationship to his existence, other characters, his decisions, and the universe. I have to feel that the character is involved in something, in some crisis which makes the drama - but I don’t in a novel because the moment disappears and I’m given a new one before I’ve had the chance to accept it.

The playwright and the scriptwriter are both superior practices to the novelist - not to say anything of their content. Although the poet is the supreme writer of all, the playwright has a greater task than the poet, because they present life, the relationships between people, society, and the world at large. There was a time when the poet, playwright, philosopher were one thing and all came out in the same work. That kind of writer remains the most supreme of all. I don’t think a writer like that would even recognise a novelist without a great burst of laughter. How disagreeable the Western novel would have been to Shakespeare, Aeschylus, and Homer. Playwrighting and poetry is more akin to music than it is even its own ugly sibling, the novel.

Tragic heroes seem as though they’re similar but they’re a total opposite. They’re supremely great characters, better than we meet in real life, who suffer from a superfluity of greatness, isolated by their superabundance of energy towards a particular habit that breaks them free from traditions of the world around them, they are explosive across the story line. Essentially they are beaten down by the world that come upon them by feeling this new thing is a threat. “Greatness wins hate” writes Aeschylus in his tragedy The Orestia. Not one tragedy asks you to pity it. The heroes are strength in the face of danger. Pleasure of will to power in the face of pain. Defiant in the face of morality. Self-insistent, an anti-hero, neither good nor evil but beyond both. Tragedies see Christianity as beneath it. The novel (and thereby cinema) is just a comedy we take pity for; a comedy we take all too seriously.

~ II

We perpetuate our values, beliefs, interpretations of the world through the stories that we tell, and the culture we share among an audience. Our own Western tradition of story telling comes from the Abrahamic religions that the West had absorbed for centuries. It’s hard to divert away from them, as the tradition of all our story-telling concepts seem to originate there. Similarly, the stories that are told around the world have their origins in the traditional and prevalent religions of that region. 

In the Western world, wherever you’re telling a story its more than likely that, even if you don’t have to think about it, the story you’re telling has its roots in Abrahamic religion’s values, beliefs, interpretations, concepts, simply because for two-thousand years the West has been predominately divided up by the three Abrahmic faiths. And when we tell a story we are really just interpreting these values, beliefs, ideas, interpretations, goals etc. we are only articulate these through a story. Sunsan Sontag expressed her view of this in a conversation with John Berger, saying that there are no stories. Stories only happen where there are writers. That life doesn’t happen in stories, life merely happens, the universe merely happens, and events merely happen in the infinity of events; and it;s our story-telling that isolates the scenario, constructs their beginning and end, places a perspective of value on to it, and gives it a meaning. That there are no stories until the story-teller makes one.  

Anybody can tell a story. It’s ingrained in us how to tell stories. We know how to tell stories through the stories we absorb all the time through the films we see, the stories we are told as children, the video games we play, the way history is told, the books we read, the essays we read, the way the news is told in the media, and the anecdotes we tell each other - we are surrounded by stories. But where do their own techniques of story-telling come from, and are they universal?

Art has always been religion’s greatest obstacle. Not science. Science, in its relinquishing of the senses as empiricism, and an objectivity that goes as far as to deny human significance “i look at the universe as realise how insignificant we are” science says - thereby denying the body and the powerful significance of one’s life - science has so far been religions greatest ally. Art on the otherhand offered people a whole view of life and power over life that religion has had no comparative to. God is not the issue in the 21st Century. You don’t have to be religious in the modern world to be religious. You just have to perpetuate religion’s values and beliefs through culture and stories. When Martin Luther nailed his treatise to the door of Castle Church in Wittenberg on 31st October 1517, and the Reformation sprung up which effectively ended the Renaissance (the Golden Age of Man of nearly two millennia), because he felt that the Catholic Church had been corrupted by paganism, culture became Christianity’s best ally. Through culture Christianity became secularised. It poisoned the rivers of culture through a new art movement Romanticism. Although philosophically after the Renaissance philosophers have always held scepticism towards Christianity, Romanticism is effectively secular Christianity. Which itself has all the ingredients of the decadent movement (or, playing in one’s ashes, or the delight in degradation), atheism (or Christianity without God), and nihilism (or, conceptual art.)

So what happens the moment you say, “well, I don’t want to tell an Abrahamic story.” Where do you go then? Say that you’re not Jewish, Christian, or Muslim, say you don’t have an Abrahamic interpretation of life and the world, what if you don’t hold Abrahamic values, how do you not tell a story that is relating these Abrahamic values and life interpretations? Let’s consider that.

~ III

I said in an earlier essay on The Tragic Artist that theatre was an extension of poetry and that theatre pre-dated formal Western philosophy. Both formal Western theatre and formal Western philosophy arose within the same people, relatively soon after each other - so soon, it could be easily argued in reaction to each other. Poetry was once philosophy too, but it divided in to two halves, those who made theatre and those who made philosophy. One of art and one of logical reasoning. Both were interpretations of their own world view and extolled the values and beliefs of that world view.

You have to really work hard to untangle the traditional Western mode of story-telling and not step in to it. Here’s a quick list of what our stories cannot involve:

Redemption (as in the endings of Dostoevsky - after a series of immoral actions, then concluding by the act of praying or converting to religion in an act of vindication of from one’s sinful actions)

Pity - characters going through suffering but we have to pity them. Pity has a weakening effect on strength.

Self-sacrifice for the greater good or out of despair of life (or, the martyrdom of Christ)

Suffering from oneself, or from life, (the ineptitude to live well and the author’s demand that we pity their ineptitude and call it drama)

Love of one’s neighbour (converting from individual to the herd)

The idea that love conquers all (Agape - the God’s love is the highest power and redeemer of humankind)

Hatred of the powerful, the people vs the ruler, what is that if not Moses’ people versus the Egyptian rulers, David versus Goliath, Jesus versus the Romans (Considering the Abrahamic religions have their origins in lowest classes of society, the herds of the oppressed lowest classes that rued their rulers, whilst the Asian religions and Ancient Greek religion have their origin in ancient educated nobility. Hatred of the powerful is a resentment of power, and the qualities of powerful, the great, the strong. Pleb revolt in favour of degenerate qualities because they are weaker and want power. The Bible Romanticises these events, but in reality they turn in to the revolutions that gave us Lenin, Saddam Hussein, Hitler, Napoleon, even Donald Trump. I already expressed that in the essay WE.) Hatred of the powerful is hatred of power itself, hatred of the strong is hatred of strength itself.

Sin and the Ten Commandments -That one’s suffers because on is sinful.

Christian concepts for various incarnations of the devil, daemons, whether incarnate or in possession of the soul. (What is the Devil if not a kind of God? And if there are no Gods, then there is no Devil. And if there is the concept of a Devil, there is within that the concept of a God.)

Good and Evil. The idea of a character of moral evil. Evil having its origin in Judeo-Christianism. The closest to evil in non-Abrahamic story-telling is what is contemptible like Eastern cinema, Epic poems or Tragic theatre. In Western stories where the antagonist of moral evil the character is always one-dimensional, flat, depthless, we’re simply supposed to believe in the idea of Evil and that’s what they are In Eastern and Greek, all the characters were good, only that some were contemptible in character, but for that they had to have character.)

Parallel worlds, alternative reality or religious afterlife. - the belief that there is a better world, a truer world, a paradise world that awaits, and that this world is only a punishment, a training, a testing ground for an afterlife where a person is saved from suffering. Or, the inability to handle life and so invents another “better” one and degrades this only and actual one in to a dream, a fabrication, even - ugh! - a punishment.

The all encompassing one hero fated to save the world - (or, the chosen people appointed by divine origin, in the case of the Jews, or the divine son, the world redeemer, in the case of Christ.)

Immortality of the soul - for that there would need to be an afterlife

Free will (so that one can be accountable for one’s actions and thereby punishable, concept of The Last Judgement, and eternal damnation. For that one would need a soul, an afterlife, and a critic like a God)

Faith - (what is faith but not wanting to believe what is true.)

Hope (Hope is the worst kind of cruelty, for it prolongs the torment. Hope after nothing, will to do it, the willingness is all. when it is willed sufficiently enough it is done.)

~ IV

If you were cancel out the timeline and geography of story-telling in the Judeo-Christian tradition, a huge chunk of time and geography is removed. What’s left is Asia, which has its own religious outlooks of Taoism, Buddhism, Shinto etc and Western geographical world that pre-dates the prevalence of Abrahamic religion, ie. Before the Hebrew Bible and before Christianity was made the official religion of the Roman Empire (which pretty much contained all of Europe).

There were only two places where I could go to to find story-telling that was counter-active to those: Asian (particularly Japan) and the Ancient Greeks (specifically Archaic Greece.) The only two story-telling approaches that arose out of world views that sprang from the educated noble, strong, masterful societies and cultures. Japanese and Archaic Greek story-telling comes out the section society that could have the strongest view of life, that stood before society like a eagle on an eyrie.

In Buddhism, there is no concept of evil, there is no sin. Sin has a Jewish origin. The dichotomy of Good and Evil is a Zarathustran origin. Our morality, a Christian. Buddhism isn’t dualistic like the Abrahamic faiths and Hinduism. It’s monoism. The yin and yang are one, complete, whole, inseperable. The East doesn’t have this influence until the 20th century Westernisation in its story-telling. and western story-telling doesn’t begin to break away from it until its Eastern influence in the 20th century. The tradition of tragedy pre-dates the concepts of good and evil. In Homer both Trojans and Greeks are Good, Hector and Achilles are both good. It’s the same in tragic plays. However, in Japanese stories a person can behave in a way that is contemptable. Disloyalty is contempltable, or irresponsibility of power etc. Instead of Christian morality there are noble codes of the samurai just as there are heroic codes in Homer.

What would be my highest concept of an artist? My highest concept of an artist. That one has gratitude and a confidence in the face of all things. Does not seek either consolation or soothing from life. Whom can really swallow the benefit in every bad situation. The Archaic Greeks held so much truth of the nature of life, that life would have been unbearable to live with such a degree of truth. In order to be able to live and not divert from it they created myth, a beautiful veil over life that sprang right out of that truth. What is requires is intoxication and ecstasy in to life that one springs in to visions that beautiful life through gazing in to truth so long. In a word: Art.

Art allows us not only to bare the sufferings and pain of life, but be grateful for it. What cant an artist endure who is of that degree. Who can go through life with confidence and gratitude in the face of all things. The artist who has a super abundance of life, knowing that all things are for them, can bear with reality and know that antagonisms make them. What is there this artist could not be grateful for, could not deal with, could not come through better as a result of all things that arrive to him/her. Everything works for their becoming. There is no misfortune of life. All things that occur work to serve them. And the awareness of the terribleness of life is not consoled, soothed, or diverted from, but overcome through Art. Only an artist to that degree of gratitude to life would I even begin to call an artist. That they overcome, ascends above, and dances right over suffering. They see it for what it truly is and not merely for what it seems to be. That art is the proper affirmation of life. As though he would recoil off the truth of life’s in to art by instinct, in order to love it still all the more. That one has no resentment towards the presence of anything, but only holds what is proper in contempt. And what does this artist hold in contempt? Anything that diminishes this instinct.

~ V

What then are all Abrahamic values? Symptoms of declining life. An impoverished life, poor in spirit, a life denying will. Symptoms that one suffers super abundantly, unendurably, from life, from stronger people, and from one’s own conscience and body. The body becomes sin, weakening, where depressants like pity become a virtue, the individual degenerates in to the need for the herd to protect and preserve it, where every quality of strength becomes an evil, and the afterlife is created as a redeemer from the pain in this one.

To be not without a little scepticism towards the social origin of religions, a little prejudice perhaps, but observation nevertheless, isn’t it funny that in religions which come from the lower classes, God is much more vague and monotheistic. Religions from the lower classes, as expected they would be from a people that knew “power” vaguely and a great singular “them above us” God is something just as fearful as a “the noble rulers” wants to be praised as much by them just as “noble rulers.” Whilst in religions that come from higher classes, gods are many (polytheistic) like the noble courts would be, and resemble many characteristics about noble courts. Since they were “higher up”, they have a gods closer to the eye, closer to the bearer, a god that does not want to be praised all the time, one or many that can be ill-tempered, flawed, and with human temperaments, that can be outwitted, a god like the Olympians, the Egyptian Gods, the Hindu gods, the Shinto gods etc, that one can even be amongst them and perhaps, even overcome them.

I’ll come outright and say it, the prevalence of Abrahamic perspectives have killed off high culture wherever and wherever they have prevailed. Just as they are prevailing right now. We approached a curve during the 20th Century through our enthusiasm for Eastern religion (which make a hundred times more sense) and the Greek Chorus-like ecstatic return to nature in music, (the colourful and enchanted but robust view of life Icelandic Sagas - which we might owe to even for a Bjork), and love of cruelty, sex, and danger in cinema (as it had been on Shakespeare’s stage, Seneca’s, and Sophocles’s stage). I only encourage artists to look elsewhere. Namely Eastern and Archaic Greek. Just recognise that it hinders the greatest art. Make your art out of a higher spirit, mentality, and perspective than what Abrahamic traditions can serve.

~ VI

Do we understand yet what the secret great goodness was occurring through the 20th century right from its beginnings to its end? From Imagism’s interest in the Japanese Haiku, Kabuki and Noh theatre, from modern dance being inspired by the ecstatic movement of Ancient Greek chorus, to Picasso’s enthusiasm for African and Ancient art, to the 60 and 70s enthusiasm for Eastern religion, its stories and symbolism, to the dream-state expressionism in theatre, to the ecstatic method of making music through 60s to 90s. Music became more physiological again, more instinctive on the way it not only affected our emotions but the way it affected our bodies. It could do with far more intellectualism in how it does this, but that it begins there is the naive genius of popular music. The 90s and very early 2000s rekindled a huge enthusiasm for Eastern culture and philosophy and religion, as well as Indian Hinduism (the practice of yoga is still popular, and Buddhist meditation), as well as a Dionysian ecstasy particularly in music, And a love of the strange, the dark, the mysterious, even the terrifying, as something to compel strength, even a love of the ancient Roman and Greek, Eatern worlds (through cinema)). It’s likely our actors are better in the 20th Century than in centuries earlier. Because we are more complete beasts. We are more barbaric, animal, primal, beasts. We don’t sever aspects of ourselves under “sin” like we had done for hundreds and hundreds of years. And combined with the elegance of literary language and scene, we straddle both high and low. We far far less likely to think of life as though it’s a chronic illness, as Abrahamic values had seen it - as even Socrates had seen it when he said “life is a long sickness.” It is precisely our barbarism that makes us more complete human beings, more animal man, fuller of life. And yet not full enough. We began to revive a foundation for super abundant life affirmative values and behaviour. Somehow perhaps very calculatedly underswept almost entirely by the mid-2000 it all disappeared.  Will this curve end? End because of the cultural conscience that has exploded upon it from Middle Eastern terror and political unrest that took hold of the West’s consciousness? Is that not itself more cause for it. Exhaustion versus Exaltation, Energy, Ecstasy. We were on our way to undoing or interfering with the Abrahamic religious influence on the Western culture, and we were creating so much better culture on account of it. How much of the 90s looked to Eastern religion, symbolism, story-telling, cinema and philosophy, that by the year 2000 we were so tired of seeing yet another martial arts appearance in a Hollywood film. But look what that did FOR pop culture. Then swept away swiftly by as early as 2002, beside the low culture that arose of Reality TV of The Simple Life that became in to the Kardashians. Why has the Kardashians been so successful? Because suddenly the whole mediocrity of the world could see themselves as a Kim or Kylie. They didn’t only identify with it they could turn to their own mirror and appear like it, and they could be claim some social affinity to multi-millionaire society to improve their social attractiveness. That took away the imaginative and well-scripted drama on TV. It took music back to that retro-retrograde of music of the raw punk and post-punk that hadn’t quite had its fill, that simplified music and the un-artistic, pathos instead of art, instead of the new peaks it was reaching as a synergy of all the genres and ideas that were circulating in the late 90s taking popular music if not music to where it hadn’t been to. And then 9/11 happened and resurged the cultural and political consciousness of Abrahamic religions. Even resurged Christianity in the West as an ignorant counter-active culture to its bigotry disdain for Islam. (As it’s doing now under Donald Trump.) So once more the Abrahmic culture gained a resurgence, defeating the Eastern-cure that was the enthusiasm for Eastern religions from India to Japan, which would have been the foundation to have a real resurgence in to that most supreme of Greek culture, for Archaic Greek culture, but from our 21st Century advantage of a perspective surveying the whole of all these varying cultures. Isn’t it clear that we were on the way, and that 9/11 interrupted this profoundly!

What fears and distrust of the East and Middle East it made the West. Causing a near immediate effect of making the West forget that the greatest music (and the poetry, cinema, and music of the 60s, 70s, and 90s was profoundly influenced by music of India, Asia, and the Middle-East - just as it influenced Greece, Rome, and the Renaissance, and the Orientalism of the early 20th century, and in short, every great period of Western Art). The 1970s (the first post-modern decade) gave us the 20th Century’s peak in popular culture’s masters. (Not meaning Arts masters, but where popular culture had figures that were touching on the Artistic Masters themselves.) But they were few and far between. But in the 90s the enthusiasm for these few figures was creating a mainstream culture that followed in their footsteps. And by the end of the 90s and first couple of years of the 2000s the brightest stars of this culture were hitting that same mastery and with the broad audience of pop culture full of enthusiasm for them. 2. Music

~ VII

But it was all abandoned. How did the Renaissance end? With the Reformation, with Lutherism, and Calvinism, and Protestant Reform of the Catholic Church that hoped to redeem the church from the Renaissance paganism love of Greece and Rome, to pull it backwards in reverse to the resurgence of Christianity. It already killed off music during the Renaissance. The joyful and strong music of Francesco Landini, Guilliame Dufay, Adam de la Halle, to become the cold and morbid music of Palestrina. That took away rhythmic power in music to have melodic music, that arose from the most commonly heard melodic music, the choirs of Christian mass. The whole tradition of classical music is a censorship on music. There’s no doubt what dances right on top and over Abrahamic religions - the Archaic Greeks, drinking songs, tragedy, ecstatic music, beauty. Dionysius. The Renaissance, the last Golden Age, did not consist of thousands of Leonardo da Vinci’s, these were exceptions, within religious times. It didn’t matter that these were religious times, these were exceptions within those times. It��s not that life is ugly, but the truth of life is ugly. So ugly that without the beautiful image and the ecstatic music we can hardly bare with such truth of life. The world can be a terrible place, that’s why we have culture, so we can live in it, that’s why we have art, so that we don’t perish by the truth. Out of the truth of reality, which would otherwise stun us in horror as stiff as a Niobe, the artist, during intoxication and passion for creativity, recoils in to artistic expression, allowing them despite the truth of life to love it all the more nevertheless. The degree of a musician is often how transformative they can turn an experience; can turn dark to light, can turn pain to pleasure, can stare in to the darkest realities of life and feel untouchable, can scale that same power as its great antagonist and become a laughing dance over it, singing never directly out of pathos but ironic to the lyric, have inventive rhythm sections and polyphonic melodies, can keep rhythm as the stronger force in music than melody, can sing as though to turn all the pain in to pleasure, and through doing so celebrate the reality of life and the vitality of the individual, freed of everything that had tried to hold it down, transformed in to a wild self-affirming return to nature.

When the future high culture looks back at our pop music with any admiration, i know of no other musician it will look admiringly with more certainty than Bjork. Throughout her catalogue she has touched on every genre, and there are touches of every form of music of every kind, without ever not sounding nevertheless quintessentially Bjork. She puts herself in to music and makes it conform to her not her to it. But more than that hers is the one music that is reminiscent of music of previous high cultures. And therefore most likely to be enjoyed by future high cultures. I fundamentally believe this: that all high cultures relished in the same culture. Its a rare culture because its the culture of rare types of people. The confusion of the contemporary world is that it mistakes the high art of the upper classes of the modern world (1600-present) for high culture, when nothing could be further. and that the people’s culture has had more to do with the high culture of high periods, its just that its shallowed and hollowed by a confusion of instinct and low personality, that lacks genius as its audience. But there should be no mistaking the backwards anti-music of opera with music of high cultures compared to the energy and wildness of popular music, made for dance, sex, even danger, and catharsis. And everything else which constitutes virility and life. And essentially strong and healthy types. Enjoyment even in the stimulus of pain in life, (how many albums were conceived out of heartbreak, and how many popular musicians say its hard to write a song from being happy), music which lifts off pain often out of the stimulus of pain. That confronts it instinctively and creates and masters over it intuitively until its purged of pain. And ends up almost grateful for it. What are all the stale opera houses in the world compared to that, which is a music that only tries to dramatise pain. Opera is itself is a complete misunderstanding of music. And for it to be called high art is a complete misunderstanding of culture. The modern world has had no high culture. Not forgetting that classical music and opera both came out of Christian religious music. And that because there was once a time that Church was higher than the state this music was naturally assumed as higher music socially, politically, and religiously. And that instrumentals for dance with secular singing etc had been the great European music until the Church banned it. And its that music that resembled our popular music. Classical music is really just a strange anomaly in the history of music - except for choral music - that really only appears in the modern world and nowhere else. And on the grand scale of how long music has been around, that’s a relatively very short period of time.

My praise for FKA twigs, (who is in many ways that risidual-Abrahamic artist - but what she is, is better than what she does). I praise her for taking music back to its ritualistic nature that it takes us to in ecstasy. I was just watching some videos from the 1990s (actually Give It Away by Anton Corbijn, which is comparable to Papi Pacify). And was just like that’s why music had me so excited back then. it broke down the bullshit. it united us all in this ritualistic ecstasy that is music. the art of music in the 1990s was more real to me than ‘real-life’. I don’t think so much today. I feel music is dressed up in the values of real life. In its materialism and consumerism, its capitalist aspirations. How many shops, manufacturers, qualities of life are entwined with music. Here music was a strength. A gravity. A superpower. A sage. Wherever the visual aesthetic of music brings us back to the nature of music, culture is the better for it. Everything about music in the 1990s verged on the ritualistic, and these projections that sprung from it, that were these visionary icons. As though connecting and portraying something deep and more enriched than the everyday, that seemed to defy and confront it. And liberate it. And liberate us to some greater direction than the world seemed to have in store for us. It seemed to remind of us a way into ourselves and a way out of the miseries of the world. If we could only sustain it in ourselves and overlap it on to the world each day. Dance and music have moved forward in ways that literature hasn’t even begun to. And for that same reason, cinema lags behind too. That’s why I invented my Poets of Ecstasy, as a redeemer of all better things in literature. And as an objection to the ascetic practice of novel writing. 

~ VIII

Homer’s works would itself be inspiration for the whole Archaic age of Greece, taking them out of the dark age. The age that gave it Thucydides, Heraclitus, Protagoras, Pindar, Sappho, and Aeschylus to name a few. And Socrates ended that age, the same way that Luther ended the Renaissance, the same way that Christianity ended the culture of the Romans.   My writings of the last six months have pointed unswervingly to that the Archiac/Tragic period of Greece was the greatest culture and art movement of all time. It even brought Greece out of its own Dark Age. And the philosophy imbued in tragedy is the greatest philosophy of all. And that the Japanese nobility’s tradition of Buddhism and its own folk tales and theatrical stories are only a step lower and are sort of that foundational level if you were to lose your grip on Tragic art. That it’s there to catch you, and ultimately to keep you “culturally hygenic” and prevent you from falling in to the Abrahamic stories that have undone every great period of art and culture in all time.

I’m not blaming any person, I’m blaming psychological traits, values, the interpretations and perspectives on to life that come along with the Abrahamic tradition - as though it were a thing that can be clasped on to a mentality. 3. Visual Art Renaissance and ancient art was not realistic because it was fascinated by the rational view of life but that it painted myths with realism and clarity that was esteemed because it was imagination of cultural myths depicted with the clarity of realism. In the late 19th century they depict real life with subjective impression and a lack of myth. 20th century art is an art period without myths, without stories, without its own tales.  Conceptual art is pure nihilistic art because it has nothing to interpret the world out of it, its a vision without substance beyond opinion, flat, and usually a polemic against something. It is art, but its nihilism. Conceptual art is merely a compensation for lacking myths. We have no stories, we have lens through which to see the world, to interpret it. We shed all our myths through atheism and the modern artistic movements. But nevertheless we have to make sense of the world and comment on it, so we use conceptual perspectives to scrunch it up, chew it up, and breathe air in to it. Conceptual art is that one can't see life with any clarity so the artist sees it through impressions, distortions, and concepts. Lies because he does not know how to see the truth. It doesn’t want Christian tales but it’s replaced them with nothing. So it has non narrative and often non figurative and where it does it is only the mundane absurdity of life, at best an empty but beautiful image, or an art conceived out of a concept of the absurdity of life , an art like this is fundamentally nihilistic. Full of nothing. That life was chaotic absurd and meaningless, just like its art. We live in an age of no myths. What’s needed is poets and story-tellers to create new myths. Romanticism is full of Christian concepts, Gothic is full of Christian concepts, Decadence, Conceptual, Surrealism, etc. The Renaissance proper was verging on to the Greco-Roman Hellenism art and at its very highest examples was veering towards Archaic Greek. The Reformation was the undoing of the Renaissance.The spirit, values, and ideals latched on to the art - which yes, may be a product of the Renaissance through figures like Michelangelo perhaps even Dante - but religion’s great opposition, Art, began to relax in the full summer of its Renaissance and found itself bitten by its enemy. All the myths were made by poets, but the rationality of science and rejection of Christianity left us nothing. I don’t want Christian myths, or even Greek and Roman myths, but we need to start making new myths, out of new values and perspectives. It’s up to poets and story-tellers to give artists a way of seeing the world clearly. A way for the world to see the world clearly. The conceptual artists aimed to do this, the Impressionists, the Romantics, the Renaissance painters, the Byzantine artists, and the Romans and Greeks, and any other era of artists. The only way to overcome Romanticism, is to overcome Christianity. Turn to the East, to the Japanese art, the Buddhist-Hindu art to purify oneself and purge the Romanticism out. Then the Archaic Tragic height, the highest peak art has yet known, will be reachable.

It’s not at all a problem that we have them, but that we don’t have the other, the better. But it gives it a reason to exist. It actually makes tragedy more profound. It’s actually the reason why Shakespeare may be more profound than Aeschylus - because he created a story-telling technique where the morality of Abrahamic faith was the “essence of evil” to the non-Abrahamic principled hero. As though the tragic hero were himself a new found European freedom, a free-spirit in every full sense of the word, who complete stepped out of Western Abrahamic tradition, but could not succeed in “living” within that world. The waste of this free-spirit in the backdrop of the Abrahamic world was Shakespearean tragic; the waste of the exception, the great hope for the future, the greatest. That was his tragedy from his first play to his last. He made all his tragic heroes tremendous by making them defy morality, customs, tradition of the world over and over again until the world finally engulfed him, and then honoured him after his demise. This was a story-telling technique that Aeschylus had no need for. The Abrahamic faith hadn’t yet caught hold of Europe’s higher classes. Aeschylus’s moral world was Zeus, and the breaching the Olympian gods, but even they were used as representations of Aeschylus’ perception in to the order of the universe. Not that it was ruled by gods, but that it had within it patterns of nature. When Aeschylus and Shakespeare are sandwiched on to each other, then there is a story that is entirely built on an understanding of the nature of the universe and the nature of man.

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Here are a few easy-to-read articles about the differences between East and West story-telling

http://lithub.com/our-fairy-tales-ourselves-storytelling-from-east-to-west/

https://blog.tkmarnell.com/east-asian-storytelling/

http://stilleatingoranges.tumblr.com/post/25153960313/the-significance-of-plot-without-conflict

http://thebookaholic.blogspot.co.uk/2007/11/are-asian-stories-different.html

https://andreaskluth.org/2010/08/18/somewhere-between-apollo-dionysus/

http://www.timsheppard.co.uk/story/dir/traditions/asiamiddleeast.html

#litearture #the novel #novel #books #plot #stories #story