Enigma

every angel is terrifying

[currentlycryingaboutlancelot]

alyosha karamazov is a great example of a character who does not make a lot of mistakes and is committed to being good and is very good but is still an endlessly fascinating and complex character. because contrary to popular belief goodness isn’t boring!!! it is actually incredibly difficult to choose what is good over and over again when it seems nothing good comes out of it! especially when everything around you is telling you you’re wrong and that your choices are worth nothing. and alyosha is told this repeatedly, that he is foolish and that his goodness is foolish because his father’s sins are in his blood, he is a karamazov just like him, and doesn’t he know it will catch up to him? doesn’t he bear the evil of his father and the brokenness of his brothers? and despite trying his best to mend his family, to bring his brothers together, he is repeatedly hurt by everyone he tries to help (remember the kid who almost bites off his finger?), his father is murdered by his own son, ivan is losing his sanity, mitya is framed and sent to prison. and the question alyosha has to confront over and over again is why even choose to be good when nothing comes of it? why continue doing something that has no profit? and it’s not like he doesn’t question this! it’s not like he doesn’t doubt what he’s doing! it’s not like alyosha doesn’t doubt his own faith when he expects a miracle from the man he considered a living saint and then his body rots away just like every other man! it shatters everything he thought he knew! but despite everything alyosha kisses the earth and says there is still something good here. there is still something worth doing even if it cannot save my father or my brothers. if i can even give one person some small, good, sacred memory that will sustain them, even if that is all i can give them, it is still good. it’s the story of the grand inquisitor. the argument answered with a kiss. the kiss is in the only way that argument can be answered, despite logic choosing to love

[aboutbirds]

People's outdated beliefs are piled up around that house. —Already pale, like gravestones. Cool in summer, warm in winter. For a moment I thought flowers had bloomed But it was just a flock of aging snow.

Chika Sagawa, "Gate of Snow," from The Collected Poems of Chika Sagawa, tr. Sawako Nakayasu

[falloutnewnobody]

this fanfic shit easy

[radiant-flight]

Void gijinka doodle page thing

[bigasscockroach]

bandee giving kirby a drink right before sectonias final form

[orphetoon]

to the other side of the lake

[thoughtkick]

“One should always be drunk. That’s all that matters…But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.”

— Charles Baudelaire

[agfgoth3]

[randomchaotix]

HIHI I LUV UR ART PLEASEEE DRAW MARIA CAMPBELL MORE SHES SO FUCKING CUTE IN YOUR STYLE I JUST WANNA PUT HER IN A HYDRAULIC PRESS

THANK YOU SO MUCH 🥹🥹🥹she is always so fun to draw…. the cute ouppy….

[randomchaotix]

Attack for @maryhuntfanatic c:

[drowningparty]

[H]ow can anyone tell the truth about Fascism, unless he is willing to speak out against capitalism, which brings it forth? What will be the practical results of such truth? Those who are against Fascism without being against capitalism, who lament over the barbarism that comes out of barbarism, are like people who wish to eat their veal without slaughtering the calf. They are willing to eat the calf, but they dislike the sight of blood. They are easily satisfied if the butcher washes his hands before weighing the meat. They are not against the property relations which engender barbarism; they are only against barbarism itself. They raise their voices against barbarism, and they do so in countries where precisely the same property relations prevail, but where the butchers wash their hands before weighing the meat.

Bertolt Brecht, from Writing the Truth: Five Difficulties (1935).

[junebird24]

(its taking place during Forgotten Land and that's why he doesn't appear in it)

[ghostremor-blog]

“The first time I saw you, I knew I would fall in love with you. That my love would be wild, raging, and passionate, but also illicit. That it could never develop into anything, and instead, it would split apart like pieces of a landslide. As flesh and blood, I was not distinct. You turned the me that opened up into my own key, and when you did, my fears seized me in a flood of tears that soon vanished. I rid myself of all my self-hate and discovered the corporeal me.”

— Qiu Miaojin

[sweetmyrrhs]

would like to note that “as flesh and blood, i was not distinct” is originally “我會血肉模糊”, which literally translates to the above line, but meaning-wise it means “i will become bloody and battered”

[thelongestrose]

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. - Emily Dickenson, 1891

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

[eccedeus]

Sociologists who have stopped the time machine and, with a good deal of conceptual huffing and puffing, have gone down to the engine-room to look, tell us that nowhere at all have they been able to locate and classify a class. They can only find a multitude of people and different occupations, incomes, status-hierarchies, and the rest. Of course they are right, since class is not this or that part of the machine, but the way the machine works once it is set in motion—not this and that interest, but the friction of interests—the movement itself, the heat, the thundering noise. Class is a social and cultural formation.. which cannot be defined abstractly, or in isolation, but only in terms of relationship with other classes; and, ultimately, the definition can only be made in the medium of time- that is, action and reaction, change and conflict. When we speak of class we are thinking of a very loosely defined body of people who share the same congeries of interests, social experiences, tradtions and value-systems, who have a disposition to behave as a class, to define themselves in their actions and in their consciousness in relation to other groups of people in class ways. But class itself is not a thing, it is a happening.

–E. P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (London, 1968), p. 939

[griefasagarden]

To see a poet exiled—as opposed to reading the poetry of exile—is to see exile’s antinomies embodied and endured with a unique intensity.

— edward said, reflections on exile and other essays