#antiquies
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last week I have been fullfilling my dark academia dreams by hanging out in literal art academias, visiting the old masters, writing in coffee shops and visiting an antiquies gabinet full of dinosaurs and rocks 🐻
#studygram#studyblr#study#studyspo#studying#bujo#study notes#bujogram#study space#aesthetic#university#student#tumblr#my post#dark academia#art academia#solo trip#antiquies#museum#paiting#coffee shop#exams#goya painting#zurbaran painting#art museum#nature gabinet#skeletons
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The incongruent halves were forced together in an unholy ritual. For that, the broken creature was punished justly:
"I was given the curse of humanity, and thus I live in torment eternal."
The only escape IT is granted is through the delusions of the screens and of the mind. Delusions that only further spiral into depression, forbidden lust, and hatred.
It becomes sickening, unable to stare into the mirror without seeing the ugly, inconceivably wrong form that IT is bound with.
It becomes enraging, seeing the hair that never grows and the dissonant melody of a mind that inhabits the wrong form.
It becomes excruciating, to have everyone IT knows be witnessing a lie. The body they know IT as is nothing but a burden to IT. The pain knowing that they will never see IT as what is right. What is IT's correct body.
It becomes worthless. Worthless trying to change anything when the only approval IT receives are from those suffering from the same problem IT has. Are they living the same truth? Is it a curse?
It becomes delusional. Delusional to believe that the human mind, birthed from other humans, and those humans birthed from other humans, and so on, could ever possibly believe that it is anything but human.
So why?
Why am I punished justly with this?
I don't know. I want to be myself. What makes me happy.
I can't ..
#pokemon#furry art#zoroark#furry#pokesona#nc//log23#A.L.T//Dummy#nc//loc [antiquis]#nc//my_curse.txt
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20 retro world map sticker
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New Music: De Antiquis Et Novis - Alchemy
New Music: De Antiquis Et Novis – Alchemy
German experimental electronic artist De Antiquis Et Novis, real name Matthias Schorer, has featured on this blog a few times now, most recently through his transcendent album Afterglow. Now he’s back with a new dance track. It’s called Alchemy.
(more…)
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#Alchemy#bright#colourful#Dance#De Antiquis Et Novis#EDM#electronic#experimental#Jean Michel Jarre#jumping#lively#magical#Tangerine Dream#unconventional
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rogatio de sententiis antiquis
propter diem linguae nativae loquendae, rogationem sententiarum praebeo: quae est sententia antiqua optima?
(For Speak Your Language Day, I present a poll: Which is the best Latin saying?) (Inspired by the German quotes poll I saw earlier! :-D)
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It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage
Jason really, really, really hates Halloween. But then he's just been kidnapped by a cult who are convinced he can give them immortality, so can you blame him?
~~
Fucking Halloween.
Jason has aways hated it. Hated it when he lived down on Crime Alley and it didn’t need to be October 31 for the worst kind of tricks. Hated it when he moved to the Manor, with its creaking floorboards and overgrown trees and fucking bats. Hates it even more now, now he’s old enough to see what it does to people in this city. Understand how it takes desperation and twists it into something grotesque. Pushes people over the edge and into the darkness.
He hates darkness too. Reminds him too much of the closet Willis used to shut him in for days at a time. Of the Manor before dawn, when he never knew if Bruce had made it home safely after a night on patrol. Of his grave… and the deep dark earth he spent an eternity clawing his way out of.
It’s dark now. And not just because of the blindfold; wrapped too tight around his head, pounding a migraine into the marrow of his skull. Wherever he is, is dark. It smells of the dark; of desperation and madness and rot, and it’s suffocating. Smothers itself against his skin, forces itself into his mouth, his lungs, his blood.
Fucking Halloween.
He’s strung up by his wrists. Shirt stripped away, skin sliced across his torso in patterns and runes; blood slow and fat dragging itself down his flesh. His shoulders are screaming, burning with his own weight. There’s a gag pressed in his mouth, his left leg is broken, and too many wandering hands to think about.
Somewhere along the way, somewhere between the Pit, and the League and the Bats, whispers had spread; quiet words on a swift winds. Red Hood had died, but he wasn’t dead. Red Hood lived, but he wasn’t alive. Murdered by the Joker, but still haunting the streets of Gotham. He’s immortal, they said. Deathless. Eternal. Endless.
As if one lifetime wasn’t enough in this god forsaken city.
He’d heard the rumours. Enjoyed them, even. Let the filth of this city wonder. He had thought. Let them fear, that Red Hood will always come for them.
He should have known something like this would happen.
It was out-of-towners who had grabbed him. Nobody from Gotham would be stupid enough to try it. Nobody from Gotham would be smart enough to pull it off. It had been a kid, see. And Jason had fallen for it hook line and sinker. She can’t have been more than six. Pressed into the shadows by his safehouse, eyes wide and desperate.
“There’s a boat.” Her words had been barely more than a whisper. “There’s a boat and kids don’t come back from there.” Her fingers had clung to the cuff of his jacket, knuckles white, hand shaking. “Please.” She’d begged. “Please help us.”
Jason wasn’t an idiot, even if he was a sucker for a desperate kid. He’d done his research, done his surveillance, he’d planned. Watched and waited and deliberated. And then he’d struck, when the moment was right. No. It had been more than right, it had been perfect. Of course it had been. Because the whole thing had been a fucking set up.
They’d been on him before he’d even unhooked his grapple. Hands, so many of them, grabbing and pulling at him from the darkness. Ripping his jacket from his shoulders, forcing him to his knees, binding his limbs with course rope. And he’d fought, of course he’d fought, but there had been so many of them. Too many.
“Oh ancient one, born before time’s dawn, on this night of night’s where the living and the dead become one, hear our call.”
“Antiqui ante auroram
cui per hoc immortale
vas manat donum
da nobis aeternum.”
The chanting had lasted for hours. So had the torture. Jason’s Latin was rusty, but he’s pretty sure they were asking an ancient time lord to make them immortal. Somehow convinced that he, or at least bits of him, were the ingredients they needed to make it a reality. A literal pound of flesh, bones and blood.
Then it had all gone silent, and he’d been left here hanging for what felt like hours now.
Alone…
In the darkness…
Fucking Halloween.
~
Fucking Jason. Dick thinks, scowling to himself as he makes his way carefully through Jason’s safehouse. He’s already been caught by two booby traps - because no matter what the younger man says, knives that fling themselves at you from across the room are not a ‘security measure’ - and he doesn’t doubt that there a more to come.
Jason’s been missing for twelve hours now. And normally Dick wouldn’t worry, because frankly, Jason loves drama, and he loves dropping off the radar even more. But he promised Alfred he’d be over for Sunday lunch and he didn’t show. Didn’t respond either, when their pseudo-grandfather called to give him a ‘stern talking to’. The older man had called Dick next, asked him to check in.
Dick could do without the babysitting. He loves Jason, he does. But Jason is still his kid brother, even if he is six foot two of solid muscle, and he’s still a pain in the ass. Dick had plans tonight. Really good ones. Ones that didn’t involve a literal mace swinging down from the ceiling, just because he sat on the couch for five minutes.
Whatever happened to Jason, it didn’t happen here. Knowing him, the whole place is probably set to explode if too many trick or treaters knock at the door… the thought doens’t make Dick feel any better.
He’d tried to access Jason’s files remotely. Had even asked Babs to help with the ones that were off-network. But there was some things Jason still did old school, like surveillance notes, literally written by hand. Physical maps on walls and red strings connecting photos of suspects and post-it notes covered in question marks. That nonsense was normally in his bedroom. Dick just had to get there without getting decapitated by a boomerang or something.
It takes him another half an hour to make it across the apartment safely. It pays off, because the desk in the bedroom has everything he needs, even if it’s none of what he wants.
It looks like a trafficking ring, is meant to look like a trafficking ring. And if it weren’t for one of the photos, of a short man with a pinched face, Dick would probably think it was one too. Jason had been watching them for nearly two weeks, documenting who the key players were and their movements. How they operated and who they reported to.
But it was all a ruse. The short man, Ozul Abaddon, is no trafficker. He’s a cult leader, one obsessed with immortality at any cost. Dick and Bruce had faced him years ago, in the earliest days of Batman and Robin. He must have done his time in Blackgate and finally reared his ugly little head again.
Dread churns in Dick’s gut and it’s nothing to do with having to head back across the apartment. If Abaddon has Jason, then Jason’s in trouble. Big trouble.
“Pennyone?” He puts a call back to the Cave.
“Nightwing.” Comes the response. “How can I be of service?”
“I need you to put the call out to the family. Red Hood’s in trouble. Serious trouble. We need everyone looking for him.” Dick pauses, and in his mind’s eye can see Alfred nod and already get to work. “I need you to send me everything we have on Ozul Abaddon. Bruce and I sent him to Blackgate back when I was still Robin. I need to know how long he’s been out and what he’s been doing. Who he’s with and where he’s doing it. Anything we might have. Send it to Jason’s computer.”
“Very good.” Comes the response. “Sending now.”
~
The chanting is back. So is the knife. By this point, Jason is too delirious with pain and blood loss to do anything but groan into the gag. Let his head roll on his shoulders and his only good leg sag beneath him. He still can’t see anything, still can’t smell anything except the copper of his own blood and the putrid stench beneath it. Still can’t feel anything but pain in his head and his shoulders and his leg, and wandering hands pawing at his body. Fondling at his flesh, searching for where to slice next.
“Sanguis effundet secretum tuum,
sanguis effundet secretum tuum,
sanguis effundet secretum tuum.”
A blade slips beneath his ribs, deeper than any cut before, and hot liquid begins to pour from Jason’s side.
God he hates Halloween.
~
Dick hates being right. When he knows something is bad, damn is it bad. And this? This was really fucking bad.
Once he had all of Jason’s research together, along with Bruce’s files on Abaddon, it only took him ten minutes to figure out where the cult must be operating from. What it is they want from Jason. And in typical Gotham fashion, it’s all kinds of awful. An old abandoned abattoir on the outskirts of the city. Because of course a cult obsessed with immortality would set up base in shop of death. Of course. Couldn’t be an old florist could it? Wouldn’t be a former bakery, or perhaps a nice little coffee house. No, no definitely not. Just a hideous, stinking, old slaughterhouse.
Even from the outside it reeks. An overwhelming stench of decay and rot, drifting out into the night air. Tainting each breath in, with death.
“Thermal imagery from the satellite suggests there could be at least 100 of them in there.” Oracle says over the comm.
Dick is sure he hears Bruce growl at that. Cass actually flexes her fingers, looks a little to eager to get to work. If Dick didn’t feel quite so full of dread, he’d probably be the same.
“Spoiler, Signal, you take the south entrance.” He says. “Batman, Robin, the west. Red Robin, Batwoman you’re on east, Orphan, you’ve got the north. I’ll take the roof.” He pauses. “There’s every chance these guys will think they’re immortal now, so they’ll be fighting with a point to prove.”
“I have a point they can prove.” Damian says, hand on the hilt of his sword. If the situation weren’t so grim, Dick would be proud of such a pun.
~
There’s a noise. A growing din beneath the chanting, and then there’s shrieking. Shrieking and screams and shouts, and the unmistakeable sound of kevlar on flesh.
About bloody time, Jason thinks, sardonically and then suddenly there are hands on him again. But they’re different this time. They’re gentle, careful. Work at removing his blindfold, his gag.
“Morning, sunshine.” Dick says, as the blindfold falls away from Jason’s face. Behind him, the rest of the Bats face off against the cultists. Jason would almost feel touched so many of them showed up to help, if he weren’t feeling so spectacularly awful right now.
“Easy, little wing.” Dick soothes, when the gag doesn’t come away as easy as the blindfold. “I’ve almost got it.”
Jason chokes as it falls away, spits out blood and mucus and god knows what else. “Wha— what took you so long?” He coughs, still hanging limply by his wrists.
“Getting through your safe house is like Raiders of the Lost Ark,” Dick replies. “You got a giant boulder in there too, ready to chase me down?”
Jason has a witty response on the tip of his tongue, but the words are too heavy for him to get out. He slumps against Dick as the older man finally frees his wrists.
“Easy, Jay.” Dick soothes. “I’ve got you.” He manoeuvres Jason to the floor, starts checking over his wounds. “Shit Jay.” He eyes the most recent stab wound. “I’m going to have to pack this.”
Jason shakes his head. “No, no.” The words slur together. “Be fine. Less juss go.”
“I’m sorry, Jay.” Dick says gently, and he’s pulling gauze from his suit. “I’ll be quick.”
“No,” Jason moans. “No, please Dickie, please don’—” He tries to push Dick’s hands away, tries to fight the older man’s insistent care.
Dick holds them down easily as if they were paper. “I’ll be quick, I promi—”
Jason cries out, louder and more desperate than he has all night, as Dick packs the wound with gauze. His fingers pushing deep into the wound. He works quickly, grimaces as Jason screams, every time the knife wound absorbs more and more dressings.
“Dick, please.” Jason sobs, hands still weakly pushing at Dick as he works. “Leave it, just—”
Another scream, and Dick flinches against the sound. Fingers fumbling as they work and then “I’m done, I’m done!” He promises, squeezes Jason’s hand. “You’re okay, Jay. You’re okay.”
Tears still roll down Jason’s temples. He shakes his head miserably. “I fucking hate Halloween.”
~
It’s gone midnight by the time Jason is fully patched up. He’s in the medbay in the Cave. His leg set with a splint, the deep cuts stitched closed, vaseline over the runes that have been carved into his skin to prevent scarring, and an IV line set up into his arm.
Dick pulls up a chair next to the bed. “So,” He begins. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
Jason gives him an unimpressed look. “I don’t want any news, can’t you just let me sleep?”
“Bad news first, excellent.” Dick grins. “Alfred is still pissed you missed Sunday lunch.”
Jason’s eyes bug out of his head for a minute. “I was literally kidnapped by a cult to be their sacrifice.”
Dick shrugs. “Sounds like a you problem.”
“You’re such an asshole.” Jason mutters.
“You’re the asshole! Why do you have so many medieval booby traps in your apartment?”
“They’re not booby traps, they’re security measures—”
“They’re booby traps.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Whatever, dickface.” He grumbles. “What’s the good news?”
“The good news,” Dick replies. “Is that it’s not Halloween anymore.” And for the first time that night, Jason does actually look relieved.
“Happy November 1st, Jay.”
#batfam#spbfic#jason todd#batfam fic#batfic#batfamily#dick grayson#batfamily fanfic#halloween#tw gore
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Jean Hanelle of Cambrai (c.1380 - c.1436)
_ O Adonai (plainchant)
_ O Adonai domus Israel / Pictor eterne syderum
[I-Tn MS J.II.9 Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria, Torino, Italy]
_ O Adonay, et Dux domus Israel, / qui Moysi in igne flammae rubi apparuisti, / et ei in Sina legem dedisti: / veni ad redimendum nos in brachio extento.
_ O Adonay, domus Israel, / O dux, vere deus, Emanuel, / O tu creator cui Michael, / Assunt eque pius et Raphael, / In Syna fulvum qui transformasti / Candentem rubum, quem ostendisti / Esse te verum, atque dedisti / Moysi legem quem docuisti, / Brachium potens, fortis, ostende / Redime, fervens, firmus, intende / Ut liberemur igne gehenne, / Ne teneamur inde perenne. / O future libris propheticis, / Expectate dictis veridicis, Affirmate signis mirificis, / Tu sperate bonis almificis, / Iam tandem veni, manus extendens / Ad redimendum nos miserascens, / Aridam sitim undis extinguens, / Eleos guttis rite perungens.
Pictor eterne syderum, / Via, salus et veritas, / Qui prebes iter prosperum / His qui que vera trinitas / Rite fatentur, lilium, / Viola, rosa, probitas, / Ros, fides, spes, subsidium, / Cedrus, ignis et caritas, / Veni, succurre propere / In brachii potentia, / Fias redemtor libere / In promissi iusticia: / Nos liberabis onere / Quo gravamur astucia / Hostis antiqui colere; / Intendemus leticia. / O Israel Adonay / Te clamamus humiliter: / Veni de monte Sinay, / Leva luctantes iugiter.
Jean Hanelle – Cypriot Vespers. Maronite and Byzantine Chants, Motets and Plainchant
Graindelavoix. Björn Schmelzer
(Glossa – GCD P32112)
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Moribus antiquis res stat Romana virisque.
- Ennius
The Roman state survives by its ancient customs and its manhood.
#ennius#roman#latin#classical#quote#rome#soldier#state#customs#traditional sketch#heritage#culture#society#politics#virility#masculinity
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Leviter inaequales lux fistulæ
Hoc compartire et servare dicamus,
Verba perpetuo memoriae tradamus,
Munus est magnum, quod ante nos sit,
Atque posteris donum posteritas dabit.
Discamus, hauriamus ex fontibus antiquis,
Et de fructu aliorum studia sumamus,
Nostrae res memoriam per quae rerum gerendarum,
Sint apud posteros monumenta manentia.
Nam cum res effluxere temporis spatio,
Verba restant semper, quae tempore non patiantur,
Et mentes hominum iungent per saecula longa,
Et virtutum exempla ad posteros transmittent.
Ergo haec compartiri et servare memento,
Et verba scripta tuis manibus conscribe,
Nostraeque res posteritati commendato,
Ut futurae gentes nostra meminerint.
ADD TO YOUR COLLECTION
#tubes#light#monochrome#neon#flux#energy#hypnotic#frequency#modulation#loop#animation#black and white#versum
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The Edwin Smith Papyrus is an ancient Egyptian medical text and the oldest known surgical treatise on trauma. Whereas other medical papyruses consisted solely of spells and recipes, the Edwin Smith Papyrus demonstrates a highly methodical and rational approach to injury.
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november's sympathiser
on the outside, we never really got along. A.L.T was always shirking his duties as head researcher. languishing in the decadence that comes with living in a world of..
i guess it's not really our creation. it's something...adjacent to that. unlucky. i know that we will find out what our purpose is, if we keep testing ourselves... trying to become....
that's not important.
what is important is making sure his lazy ass doesn't lose sight of what we must do, or more importantly, make sure that he doesn't piss off the New Century...it's their lab we're holed up in, i sure as hell don't care about finding some human boy right now, but a bit of feigned interest goes a long way.
to be fair, i don't think it'll be too long before we finally get it worked out. this mountain base they call Tenebris is so rickety and old, they've already built a new one, Nova Tenebris...
I don't think it's going to be safe to work here much longer, but hopefully we get this fusion thing working or die trying....
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*in piedi sul piano della cucina* buongiorno φίλοι, φίλαι e φίλα. a grande richiesta.
Il Δύσκολος, noto in italiano intercambiabilmente con il titolo di Misantropo o di Burbero, è una commedia menandrea in cinque atti datata attorno al 316 a.c., nonché unica opera del filone della commedia nuova ad esserci pervenuto quasi per intero. Al centro della narrazione vi sono due vicende parallele, quella del giovane Sostrato, proveniente da una ricca famiglia cittadina, innamorato di un’umile fanciulla contadina della quale, giustamente, non conosciamo neppure il nome; e quella di Cnemone, vecchio scorbutico e asociale - da lui il nome della commedia - e padre della giovane.
Il personaggio di quest’ultimo è caratterizzato molto chiaramente, come un “misantropo (ἀπάνθρωπος, “lontano dall’umanità), collerico con tutti (appunto δύσκολος πρὸς ἅπαντας), che non ama la gente.” [δύσκολος I, vv 6-7]. La sua è un’asocialità fraintesa dagli altri personaggi, la cui immagine di Cnemone è quella di un vecchio selvatico e aggressivo ai limiti della bestialità, che non solo evita ma contrasta attivamente qualsiasi tipo di contatto con il mondo esterno e contemporaneo. In verità, il suo atteggiamento altro non è che una risposta estrema a un bisogno di integrità morale; esso si manifesta in un rifiuto attivo della città, luogo naturale di rapporti umani, sociali ed economici, ma anche simbolo e incarnazione di progresso e modernità, e da un rifugio nella campagna, in una vita spartana e quasi autarchica, umile, povera. Cnemone, come la maggior parte dei vecchi nella letteratura grecolatina, è ancorato agli antiqui mores, alle tradizioni patrie e in ultimis a un’idea di moralità ormai superata e arcaica. L’isolamento di Cnemone dalla socialità corrisponde in larga misura a un isolamento dal presente; e risulta difficile non vedere in questo comportamento un parallelismo con quello dei tre evangelisti. O almeno, risulta difficile a me non pensare ai tre evangelisti per più di cinque minuti di fila.
Il presente, dagli occhi degli evangelisti, è sinonimo di degrado, scardinamento. I sistemi valoriali di tutti e tre (soprattutto di Marc, considerato che fredvargas a quanto pare preferirebbe morire piuttosto che approfondire un minimo introspettivamente Mathias e ancora di più Lucien) paiono anche loro radicati nei rispettivi periodi d’elezione; di nuovo, soprattutto quello di Marc, con tutte le sue seghe mentali sulla nobiltà cavalleresca. Il simbolo maggiormente rappresentativo del loro isolamento completo dal presente e dal progresso è, almeno a mio avviso, l’elemento del telefono - o della sua mancanza. Essa li isola non solo metaforicamente da una tecnologia ormai incompatibile con le loro tendenze al rifugiarsi nel passato, ma fisicamente da qualsiasi contatto con l’esterno. Non a caso il loro unico ponte con la modernità (n.d.a. in questo trip allucinante che mi sto facendo userò presente, modernità e contemporaneità, che storicamente NON significano la stessa cosa, nella loro accezione di uso comune, come sinonimi di, appunto, presente, perché ripetere sempre la stessa parola suonerebbe male) nonché con la rete telefonica è Vandoosler il Vecchio, simbolo del presente, che per telefonare deve uscire dalla casa per recarsi al vicino bar, atto che può essere inteso come un abbandono del passato, di cui la topaia pare intrisa, e una dipendenza da un luogo di rapporto umano come il bar, ma soprattutto luogo moderno. In più, non è difficile riscontrare somiglianze tra i rispettivi stili di vita, entrambi poveri e difficili seppur per diversi motivi.
Come Cnemone rifiuta la contemporaneità, così gli evangelisti, e qualsiasi epoca non sia quella che vedono come “loro”, e una mediazione tra piani temporali non pare possibile. In realtà, la suddetta mediazione tra contesti e epoche avverrà, nel δύσκολος come più discutibilmente nella trilogia degli evangelisti, dalla forza conciliatrice dell’Eros. In Menandro, è l’amore di Sostrato per la figlia di Cnemone a fungere da intermediario nelle contrapposizioni di ordine psicologico, generazionale, ambientale e socioeconomico; in Vargas è altresì l’amore (amore platonico, amicale, fraterno, non assolutamente con sfumature omoerotiche) che comunque si forma tra i tre nonostante le loro evidenti differenze, permettendo loro di superare la barriera temporale dei secoli e fisica delle scale per unirsi tutti in nome di una causa comune. L’amore di Sostrato (come l’amore l’amicizia tra gli evangelisti) attiva un processo comunicativo e conciliatore tra mondi così distanti, in quanto nell’universo menandreo “l’eros [...] si afferma come forza conciliatrice capace di mediare tra le disparità delle condizioni sociali e dei caratteri” [F. Ferrari, Introduzione al teatro greco, Sansoni, Milano, 1996.]
Altra analogia può essere trovata nella scena del pozzo. Durante l’atto IV, a causa di un errore della vecchia serva fidata (dunque per colpa di una donna più matura con la quale la persona ha un rapporto di fiducia stretta e quasi familiare non so se vedete la mia visione o se sono io che sto uscendo di testa) Cnemone precipita in un pozzo, dove resta, ferito e quasi moribondo, incapace di uscirne. A salvarlo sono Gorgia, figlio di primo letto della ex moglie di Cnemone stesso, e Sostrato; Gorgia si cala nel pozzo e soccorre Cnemone, mentre Sostrato regge la fune per trascinarli di nuovo in superficie. Se fisicamente i ruoli corrispondenti sono chiari (Mathias-Cnemone, Marc-Gorgia e Lucien-Sostrato) metaforicamente parlando le figure si confondono, tanto da poter affermare che tutti e tre gli evangelisti siano in qualche misura tutti e tre gli eroi comici.
Cnemone è nel pozzo, nuovamente e ancor più isolato, sprofondato in strati di terreno che effettivamente risalgono a epoche passate; e Cnemone rappresenta l’anzianità, rappresenta il rifugio nel passato e nella solitudine - che, con il caso del pozzo, potrebbero trasformarsi dal suo riparo alla sua tomba - il rifiuto del presente, e tutto quello che è stato detto in precedenza. Gorgia, al contrario, rappresenta la gioventù contrapposta alla vecchiaia del patrigno. Quello di Gorgia è un personaggio completamente positivo, portatore di valori etici quasi progressisti e che nella sua giovinezza porta al tempo stesso novità e maturità. I tre evangelisti stessi, nonostante i trent’anni suonati, sono sempre descritti come dei giovani, da Sophia, da Armand, da Adamsberg, et cetera. Nonostante la loro vocazione da storici, gli evangelisti sono comunque, volenti o nolenti, membri più o meno attivi di un presente che cercano di cambiare e migliorare, a partire dalla loro situazione finanziaria sino al complesso dell’eroe che emerge potentemente quando si ritrovino invischiati in un caso di omicidio. L’immagine del nuovo che soccorre il vecchio, nel momento in cui entrambi gli spiriti coesistano all’interno dei tre evangelisti, può essere intesa come se i tre, vicendevolmente, si salvassero da sé stessi. Le loro vite prima dell’incontro e della coabitazione sono sempre descritte come deprimenti, faticose e soprattutto solitarie [Fred Vargas, Debout les Morts, capitolo III]. L’aiuto che si prestano a vicenda, anche inconsciamente, non è solo monetario ma soprattutto morale, psicologico, e per quanto siano incapaci di esprimerlo a parole in quanto uomini alfa testosteronici l’affetto che provano l’uno per l’altro, di qualsiasi natura esso sia, è senza dubbio presente, e sincero.
Per ultima, viene la dimensione erotica. Le motivazioni di Sostrato, lasciato a reggere la fune, sono in realtà le più semplici: ingraziarsi il padre e, speranzosamente, la figlia. Più volte descrive, nella sua ῥῆσις ἀγγέλλικε, come durante l’intera operazione di salvataggio e subito dopo non sia in grado di staccare gli occhi dalla giovane, trattenendosi a stento dal baciarla. Similmente, persino dopo essere riemerso ed essere stato estratto dal pozzo, Mathias ripensa a Juliette (uomo etero alert) e al fatto che nonostante fosse un’assassina (e probabilmente pure lesbica) per farla breve lui aveva sempre voluto portarsela a letto e anzi, quasi quasi in fin dei conti era un peccato che non fosse successo. Invece Lucien - che è patologicamente incapace di comportarsi da eterosessuale - alla fine di questa serie di eventi fortemente traumatici, quando ci è finalmente dato uno spaccato dei suoi pensieri, anziché imparanoiarsi per tutto quello che è appena successo, fissa il suo coinquilino (uomo) bagnato fradicio, con tanto di descrizione del modo in cui i capelli gli ricadano sulle spalle. Comunque, se Sostrato riesce a ottenere la benedizione di Cnemone e a sposare l’amata, nessuno dei tre evangelisti tromba né verosimilmente tromberà mai. Choose celibacy !!!
Questi erano i miei due centesimi (documento google di 1400 parole). Valgono gli stessi disclaimer del muro di testo dell’altra volta io sono solo un omino su tumblr e sono pronto a scommettere che anche se fredvargas avesse letto Menandro di sicuro non ha creato volontariamente questa gigantesca metafora che invece ho allucinato io. Questa volta l’elaborazione arriva DOPODOMANI non rompetemi il cazzo sulla grammatica io questa roba non l’ho neanche riletta.
bibliografia: xenia 3 (il mio libro di letteratura greca); la mia insegnante di greco (grazie monica); fonti terze citate nel testo. per lo spelling delle parole greche ringrazio poesialatina punto it e olivetti greco dizionario online quindi se accenti e spiriti sono messi a cazzo di cane o manca uno iota sottoscritto sappiate che per una volta NON è colpa mia.
#autismopostaggio per muri di testo#debout les morts#the three evangelists#fred vargas#i tre evangelisti#marc vandoosler#lucien devernois#mathias delamarre#menander#greek theatre#greek comedy#ancient greece#lumarc#perdonatemi
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Album Review: De Antiquis Et Novis - Afterglow
Album Review: De Antiquis Et Novis – Afterglow
De Antiquis et Novis, real name Matthias Schorer, is a Munich, Germany-based electronic artist who I first discovered earlier this year through his delightfully lush track Afterglow. The track opens his album of the same name and when I saw it had been released, I knew I had to give it a listen. Here’s my track by track review.
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#accessible#atmospheric#bright#CALM#challenging#Chilled#De Antiquis Et Novis#depth#dream pop#electronic#ethereal#expansive#genre-defying#groove#lush#Matthias Schorer#Munich#organic#weightless
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from: Veneres uti observantur in gemmis antiquis (1785)
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I…I would try. If that side of me took over, he would not want to leave. I would have to battle him for dominance and control.
Has he ever been there in my presence? I.. can't seem to remember.
Why, alpha? Where is that need for violence.. or all that coming from? Is that somrthing all alphas just.. have?
He’s only surfaced once, and that was during my fight for you at the Offering.
I wish I could tell you where it comes from. Even my father didn’t know. He suspected it had something to do with our bloodline as the only remaining descendants of the lupi antiquis. Our instincts and drives are far more persistent, far more uncontrollable than the average wolf.
I think that other side of me… It’s not something most have. No alpha has ever spoken to me of anything like it. And I haven’t shared my experience with any. Not even Namjoon.
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