The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal — the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease, were incidents of half an hour.
But Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his crenellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.
They resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”
It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence. [continue reading…]
The image of a man waking up or snapping out of a daze is a good one to use for all Western people, especially Americans. In the provinces of the Empire, there has always been a bit of skepticism about America, so they never fully succumbed to the narcotic effects of the American empire. In the heart of the empire, the combination of American mythology, civic nationalism and patriotic nostalgia have kept most Americans in a narcotic fog, unable to fully grasp what is happening to them. The Awakening
Truer words were never spoken. The American liberal media outlets are the enemy of truth. Their relentless servitude to the Democratic Party is only interrupted by sleep and the occasional video hand job by #JeffreyToobin . pic.twitter.com/HhQFjpQOK7
Rush Limbaugh Gives Emotional Update On His HealthYou know, I’ve loved to point out we all only get one life. We don’t get a do-over in the… Well, we do. Actually, we get a do-over every day if we choose to look at it that way. Once we’re old enough and mature enough to understand what life is and that there is only one, then you do get do-overs, an opportunity to fix what you think you might not have done so well the day before, which is an operative philosophy of mine. But the fact that I have that option and that opportunity compared to where I thought I would be at this time? I mean, that’s “go get the hallelujah chorus and have ’em start singing to me,” because that’s exactly where this is — and the future?
“Don’t confuse me with being anything else other than proud. Proud to be a hunter. It’s time we stop apologizing for how we get our protein. This is who we are. Unless you’re a small-time rancher, small-time farmer, a hunter, or fishermen… you really have no idea where your food comes from. Most people don’t even think about it. Well, we think about it. ” – Donnie Vincent.
“From a student radical/hippie/leftist of the Free Speech Movement/Vietnam Day Commitee era and a full-on Democratic Liberal in the decades after, I think I’ve evolved a politics that is neither right nor left but is, in its elemental nature, draconian. In the last 20 years, I’ve taken apart my beliefs with a sledgehammer. Now I’ve got to put the surviving parts back together with tweezers and other ‘shabby equipment, always deteriorating’.”
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.