Mala Tempora Currunt

[malatempora]

Pale and misplaced.

The sun hasn’t even left yet and here she is, ghosting over the pines like a thought you weren't ready to have.

Sometimes the day is too loud for this much silver.

[malatempora]

Sometimes you’re just wandering through the woods, headphones on, head a bit heavy with everything, and then you see it.

This purple. honestly.

It’s not a "flower shop" kind of purple. It’s deep, proper moody, standing there all sharp and jagged against the green like it’s got a bit of an attitude. I love that nature doesn’t try too hard to be pretty; it just is. It’s got these mad little yellow specs in the middle, like someone’s flicked paint at it and just walked off.

Makes you think, doesn't it? We spend so much time worrying about fitting in, but this little thing is just vibing in the shadows, being loud as hell without saying a word. Pure magic, really. I needed that today.

The world is noisy, but the colors are quiet enough to listen.

[malatempora]

The Lowdown on Artaud’s Monk

Right, here we go. Let’s be real for a sec: diving into Artaud’s take on Lewis is a bit like walking into a pitch-black room knowing full well someone’s moved all the furniture around.

This isn't just some bog-standard "translation." It’s a proper scrap. If Lewis’s original The Monk was the OG of Gothic—all screams, dungeons, and naughty bits—Artaud’s version is... something else. It’s more feverish. Artaud isn’t just telling us about Ambrosio’s downfall; it feels like he’s living it through his own skin while he writes, and dragging us down with him.

At first glance, you might think, "Yeah, alright, same old story about a holy man going off the rails." But hold up. It’s not about the moral of the story; it’s about the trap.

Hypocrisy as a mirror: Artaud uses his prose to absolutely dismantle the whole idea of purity. Ambrosio doesn’t trip up because he’s "evil," but because he’s been locked away in this fake perfection for way too long. It’s a wake-up call for the rest of us: how much of what we show the world is just a flimsy wall waiting to cave in at the first sign of a breeze?

Language that burns: What really got me was the rhythm. There are bits where Artaud speeds up, gets almost violent, and then others where he lingers on tiny details Lewis wouldn't have given a toss about. He’s not just describing an abbey; he’s describing an obsession.

Why bother with it today?

Maybe because we’re all a bit like Ambrosio now, surrounded by these curated versions of ourselves we feel we have to protect at any cost. Reading this version means accepting that chaos is just part of the deal. It’s not a "polite" book. It’s messy, it’s jarring, and it’s incredibly sharp in its madness.

Don’t expect some straightforward modern novel. It’s a full-on sensory trip. There are moments where you can practically smell the incense mixing with the dust and all that bottled-up desire.

The long and short of it

If you’re looking for a light read to switch your brain off, forget it. But if you want someone to grab you by the shoulders and give you a proper shake, Artaud’s your man. I’m not gonna tell you how it ends—even if everyone knows the legend—because the "what" matters way less than the "how." And the "how" here is a gorgeous bit of an abyss.

In the end, maybe Ambrosio’s only real screw-up wasn't the sin itself, but thinking that a robe could keep a wildfire under control.

No one’s as dangerous as the person convinced they can never fall.