Random Excerpts

From Leon Bloy The Pilgrim of the Absolute

Soon we will be entering the 3d year of the plague justifying the Sword of the Covidians. The wicked Sultan forcing conversion by injection on pain of death in a hospital or starvation in the street has turned faces into masks and our bodies into sadistic experiments in open air hospitals called nations. Some labor rises in objection and in some echelons of the Bourgeois we see signs of narrative failure and a few are reconsidering the outcome from their hubris. However the Sultan may not be disobeyed and all must obey in lock step so the Great Reset can consolidate universal power and launch 10-G Conquistadores to the Stars. Disobedience can be slow walked. Truckers can be free of mandates but soldiers not. Meaning who shoots truckers will either sick soldiers or androids.

History Is Like a Dream.]   

As history unfurls, it becomes  at once God’s secret,  and even what is most    authentic to the thinker’s mind is nothing more than  a probable opinion.    However documented a  historian may  be, he knows well that he does not  see the fact    confronting him which he has so painfully fished  up,  like a piece    of  flotsam    from the depths of darkness.    Its essential, divine form necessarily escapes  him.    We have sure, indisputable proof of  a great number of historic  events.  in clearly determined periods; but these proofs, basically, have no other consistency than the absolute necessity of    these events and these periods.    This is what was necessary,    and not something else.    Here is the    only    criterion. Jeanne d’Arc might    have been freed or ransomed by the    king—her    death was not    a necessary consequence of    her captivity,    it has been said.    True    enough, but that is not what    happened, because these vast injustices    were indispensable to the working out of an enormously mysterious plan which we cannot understand.

[Tears.]

There    is nothing else. Everything  is vain except  tears.    History  is  like a dream   since it is  built upon time,    which    is an illusion often painful, always uncapturable,  an illusion impossible    to make precise. Each of the    infinitesimal particles the sum of which we call duration hurtles toward  the gulf of the  past with lightning speed, and history is nothing  other than this swarm of lightning flashes recorded upon the pupils of  tortoises.