There are deaths such as the death of a chicken in the jaws of a coyote, an aphid in the jaws of a ladybug larva, a duck as I bring down the hatchet to split him head from body. And there are deaths such as that of the larva who falls asleep to awaken as a ladybug, the grub who spins a black cocoon before becoming a honeybee, and each of us each night dying to one world to find ourselves in another, and each morning dying in the other to walk again in the present.
Judith Slaying Holofernes is a painting by the Italian early Baroque artist Artemisia Gentileschi completed between 1611–12.
The Color of Pomegranates [sayat Nova] Sergei Parajanov
Alchemical Mandala, from The Hermetic Journal Number 12, Summer 1981
(Source: esotericonline.net, via mentalalchemy)
Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian
Submitted by burn-out-the-night.
"Expulsion of the Demons"
I get an odd feeling that this is a crucial moment in my life and I’m startled by the suddenness of what I guess passes for an epiphany. There is nothing of value I can offer her. For the first time I see her as uninhibited; she seems stronger, less controllable, wanting to take me into a new and unfamiliar land — the dreaded uncertainty of a totally different world. I sense she wants to rearrange my life in a significant way — her eyes tell me this and though I see truth in them, I also know that one day, sometime very soon, she too will be locked in the rhythm of my insanity. All I have to do is keep silent about this and not bring it up — yet she weakens me, it’s almost as if she’s making the decision about who I am, and in my own stubborn, willful way I can admit to feeling a pang, something tightening inside, and before I can stop it I find myself almost dazzled and moved that I might have the capacity to accept, though not return, her love. I wonder if even now, right here in Nowheres, she can see the darkening clouds behind my eyes lifting. And though the coldness I have always felt leaves me, the numbness doesn’t and probably never will.
Hour of the Wolf (1968) - Ingmar Bergman
The Skeletons & the Elders by Agostino Veneziano 1518
Francesco Fracanzano, The Mocking of Christ, 17th century
The human soul is a madhouse of the grotesque. If a soul were able to reveal itself truthfully, if its shame and modesty didn’t run deeper than all its known and named ignominies, then it would be—as is said of truth—a well, but a sinister well full of murky echoes and inhabited by abhorrent creatures, slimy non-beings, lifeless slugs, the snot of subjectivity.