#diogenes with his lantern

[fine-arts-gallery]

Diogenes with his Lantern, in Search of an Honest Man (1613-1699) by Mattia Preti.

[dato-georgia-caucasus]

Mattia Preti - Diogenes with His Lantern, In Search of an Honest Man

[sadeyedlady-writes]

Undoubtedly the worst thing about Fyodor Pavlovich is that there is absolutely nothing which he holds as sacred, holy, untouchable, worthy of reverence or respect. Everything is a joke to him.

The very worst way this is exemplified is his alleged (but come on, we all know it was him) crime against the “holy fool” Lizaveta Smerdyashchaya, which for him was yet another distasteful joke. Lizaveta’s innocence and vulnerability are recognised by the community of Skotoprigonyevsk, both young and old, and we are given paragraphs and paragraphs to show how she is widely adored by the townspeople and how attempts are made to shelter, protect, and care for her.

When Fyodor Pavlovich violates her, he violates something that the community holds as sacred.

That, to me, is the core difference between someone like him and someone like Mitya. Even though Mitya has done a lot of “dirty things” and may on the surface appear to be following in his father’s footsteps, his heart is a noble one, or at least one with noble intentions. One that is filled with reverence and genuine emotion and a hatred for what is abhorrent—even when he himself is doing things that are abhorrent.

And even though we can fully understand his hatred of his father for his loathsomely mocking, irreverent, dishonourable, ignoble attitude toward everything, once his father is dead, he still feels sorry for that hatred. He still regrets the relationship he never had with the father who neglected him as a child and possibly swindled him as a young man. That alone speaks to the kind of heart that he has.

“It is a noble man you are speaking with, a most noble person; above all—do not lose sight of this—a man who has done a world of mean things, but who always was and remained a most noble person, as a person, inside, in his depths, well, in short, I don't know how to say it ... This is precisely what has tormented me all my life, that I thirsted for nobility, that I was, so to speak, a sufferer for nobility, seeking it with a lantern, Diogenes’ lantern, and meanwhile all my life I've been doing only dirty things, as we all do, gentlemen ... I mean, me alone, gentlemen, not all but me alone, I made a mistake, me alone, alone ... ! Gentlemen, my head aches,” he winced with pain. “You see, gentlemen, I did not like his appearance, it was somehow dishonorable, boastful, trampling on all that's holy, mockery and unbelief, loathsome, loathsome! But now that he's dead, I think differently.”

“How differently?”

“Not differently, but I'm sorry I hated him so much.”

“You feel repentant?”

“No, not really repentant, don't write that down. I'm not good myself, gentlemen, that's the thing, I'm not so beautiful myself, and therefore I had no right to consider him repulsive, that's the thing. Perhaps you can write that down.”

- The Brothers Karamazov, 3.9.3 (Pevear & Volokhonsky translation)

There is no beauty to be found in anything about Fyodor Pavlovich, and though Mitya contests that the same is true of himself, I argue differently. There is something beautiful in the struggle of an imperfect human toward nobility, despite being doomed to always fall short. To again and again slip into one’s baser impulses, and yet again and again stand back up and trudge onwards.

Both are human, but Fyodor Pavlovich is all of the very worst things about humanity, while Mitya is the worst things mingled with much of the very best.

[waldires]

Diogenes with His Lantern by Gioacchino Assereto (1600-1649). Kedleston Hall and Eastern Museum, oil on canvas 114,5x162,5 cm

[themuseumwithoutwalls]

MWW Artwork of the Day (4/25/24) Pieter van Mol (Flemish, 1599-1650) Diogenes with his lantern looking for an honest man (c. 1635-45) Oil on panel, 65 x 84.6 cm. Private Collection

This arresting Flemish Caravaggesque painting, "Diogenes looking for an Honest Man," is an unrivalled masterpiece from the brush of Pieter van Mol, a relatively unknown artist from the orbit of Rubens in Antwerp. Perhaps the reason for Van Mol’s obscurity is the fact that he spent most of his career working in Paris and not in his native Antwerp. Born nearly eight months after Van Dyck in Antwerp in 1599, Van Mol likely apprenticed with Artus Wolffert and probably accompanied Rubens to Paris in 1625, when the master travelled there for the commission of the Medici Cycle in the Luxembourg Palace. While Van Mol’s oeuvre is replete with paintings of excellent quality, this picture is surely the artist’s strongest work. It was a celebrated treasure in several prominent French collections.

[cliozaur]

• Time becomes compressed as darkness descends, heralding the impending activity of Patron Minette. Meanwhile, within the "Jondrette’s lair," various sources of light are described in detail: a brazier, a candle, moonlight, and an as yet unlit lantern. Their sinister nature is palpable, with the exception of the moonlight. Particularly ominous is the brazier, which casts a hellish atmosphere upon the room. The lantern, described as "worthy of Diogenes turned Cartouche," falls into the same category. Rather than employing its light in the pursuit of truth, Thénardier and Co will exploit it for their criminal endeavours. Both the candle and moonlight play a role in concealing Marius' presence in his room. Opting for moonlight instead of a candle, Mme Thénardier fails to notice Marius, who, dressed in his gothic attire, remains shrouded in shadows.

• The Thénardiers are indeed treating Marius' room and belongings as their own, aren't they? This doesn't appear to be the first or second occurrence; it seems that Marius had simply not paid much attention to such matters until now. Speaking of Thénardier, he is once again dehumanized, as Hugo likens him to a demon perched beside "a mouth of hell."

• It's a poignant irony: the five francs that Marius lacked just hours ago to secure a carriage and follow his beloved are now repurposed for the same objective — paying the carriage driver who transported "M. Leblanc," facilitating his departure!

[talesofpassingtime]

Could anyone possibly imagine a better match? Aristocrat, millionaire, and idiot, he has every advantage! One might hunt in vain for his equal, even with the lantern of Diogenes; his like is not to be had even by getting it made to order!

— Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot 

[plantdad-dante]

Book #74 - Small Gods by Terry Pratchett

(first time read and... sincerely. with all my heart. what the fuck.) I got hit by just about every plot curve ball this book possibly had to offer and I think it left me with  a slight concussion. It has been very hard to try and put this post together over the last two weeks. This one leaves out most of the usual Discworld comedy (or hits harder, so that the comedy comes up less pronounced, idk). I think the only time I really laughed out loud was when the Omnian version of Dibbler tried to lobby God and sell him his weird food. Oh, and when Didactylos threw his lantern at Vorbis. Didactylos in general was awesome. Yes, one of my favourite one-of Discworld characters ends up being the Diogenes-Galilei mashup with the best version of Plato's Cave I ever read. That's just how it goes sometimes. By the way... I need a little time, sometimes, to get into a book and pick up on the right vibes and stuff. Discworld normally doesn't take me more than fifty pages or so, on average more like ten or fifteen... Small Gods, which took at least 170 pages to get me on board, is a statistical anomaly which will need closer examination before being admitted into the count. Seriously, for about a 100 pages, I picked up nothing but Tombs Of Atuan vibes, and that was no help whatsoever to my poor confused brain. (I mean... religious zealotry, desert, something horrible in the basement? Tombs Of Atuan. I'm right, shut up.) Anyway, uhhhh....  Vorbis is fucking scary. Like actually legitimately terrifying? A tortoise to the head was the perfect way to take him out. If he had died any other way it would... it wouldn't have worked. I don't know. I think the reason why the plot caught me off-guard as much as it did was that I just failed to foresee the absolute depths of Vorbis' evil and ingenuity. The last third gets so defiantly compassionate that it almost got hard to read at times, and I for one found that very punk. Small Gods is unique, even among Discworld novels. I'm beginning to learn that the stand-alone novels hit different (in this case harder, and with a two-by-four) than the ones with established characters and established places. It's nice, in a way, to have found this out. Even with a black eye to show for it.

[lesmislettersdaily]

Four And Four

Volume 1: Fantine; Book 3: In The Year 1817; Chapter 3: Four And Four

It is hard nowadays to picture to one’s self what a pleasure-trip of students and grisettes to the country was like, forty-five years ago. The suburbs of Paris are no longer the same; the physiognomy of what may be called circumparisian life has changed completely in the last half-century; where there was the cuckoo, there is the railway car; where there was a tender-boat, there is now the steamboat; people speak of Fécamp nowadays as they spoke of Saint-Cloud in those days. The Paris of 1862 is a city which has France for its outskirts.

The four couples conscientiously went through with all the country follies possible at that time. The vacation was beginning, and it was a warm, bright, summer day. On the preceding day, Favourite, the only one who knew how to write, had written the following to Tholomyès in the name of the four: “It is a good hour to emerge from happiness.” That is why they rose at five o’clock in the morning. Then they went to Saint-Cloud by the coach, looked at the dry cascade and exclaimed, “This must be very beautiful when there is water!” They breakfasted at the Tête-Noir, where Castaing had not yet been; they treated themselves to a game of ring-throwing under the quincunx of trees of the grand fountain; they ascended Diogenes’ lantern, they gambled for macaroons at the roulette establishment of the Pont de Sèvres, picked bouquets at Pateaux, bought reed-pipes at Neuilly, ate apple tarts everywhere, and were perfectly happy.

The young girls rustled and chatted like warblers escaped from their cage. It was a perfect delirium. From time to time they bestowed little taps on the young men. Matutinal intoxication of life! adorable years! the wings of the dragonfly quiver. Oh, whoever you may be, do you not remember? Have you rambled through the brushwood, holding aside the branches, on account of the charming head which is coming on behind you? Have you slid, laughing, down a slope all wet with rain, with a beloved woman holding your hand, and crying, “Ah, my new boots! what a state they are in!”

Let us say at once that that merry obstacle, a shower, was lacking in the case of this good-humored party, although Favourite had said as they set out, with a magisterial and maternal tone, “The slugs are crawling in the paths,—a sign of rain, children.”

All four were madly pretty. A good old classic poet, then famous, a good fellow who had an Éléonore, M. le Chevalier de Labouisse, as he strolled that day beneath the chestnut-trees of Saint-Cloud, saw them pass about ten o’clock in the morning, and exclaimed, “There is one too many of them,” as he thought of the Graces. Favourite, Blachevelle’s friend, the one aged three and twenty, the old one, ran on in front under the great green boughs, jumped the ditches, stalked distractedly over bushes, and presided over this merry-making with the spirit of a young female faun. Zéphine and Dahlia, whom chance had made beautiful in such a way that they set each off when they were together, and completed each other, never left each other, more from an instinct of coquetry than from friendship, and clinging to each other, they assumed English poses; the first keepsakes had just made their appearance, melancholy was dawning for women, as later on, Byronism dawned for men; and the hair of the tender sex began to droop dolefully. Zéphine and Dahlia had their hair dressed in rolls. Listolier and Fameuil, who were engaged in discussing their professors, explained to Fantine the difference that existed between M. Delvincourt and M. Blondeau.

Blachevelle seemed to have been created expressly to carry Favourite’s single-bordered, imitation India shawl of Ternaux’s manufacture, on his arm on Sundays.

Tholomyès followed, dominating the group. He was very gay, but one felt the force of government in him; there was dictation in his joviality; his principal ornament was a pair of trousers of elephant-leg pattern of nankeen, with straps of braided copper wire; he carried a stout rattan worth two hundred francs in his hand, and, as he treated himself to everything, a strange thing called a cigar in his mouth. Nothing was sacred to him; he smoked.

“That Tholomyès is astounding!” said the others, with veneration. “What trousers! What energy!”

As for Fantine, she was a joy to behold. Her splendid teeth had evidently received an office from God,—laughter. She preferred to carry her little hat of sewed straw, with its long white strings, in her hand rather than on her head. Her thick blond hair, which was inclined to wave, and which easily uncoiled, and which it was necessary to fasten up incessantly, seemed made for the flight of Galatea under the willows. Her rosy lips babbled enchantingly. The corners of her mouth voluptuously turned up, as in the antique masks of Erigone, had an air of encouraging the audacious; but her long, shadowy lashes drooped discreetly over the jollity of the lower part of the face as though to call a halt. There was something indescribably harmonious and striking about her entire dress. She wore a gown of mauve barège, little reddish brown buskins, whose ribbons traced an X on her fine, white, open-worked stockings, and that sort of muslin spencer, a Marseilles invention, whose name, canezou, a corruption of the words quinze août, pronounced after the fashion of the Canebière, signifies fine weather, heat, and midday. The three others, less timid, as we have already said, wore low-necked dresses without disguise, which in summer, beneath flower-adorned hats, are very graceful and enticing; but by the side of these audacious outfits, blond Fantine’s canezou, with its transparencies, its indiscretion, and its reticence, concealing and displaying at one and the same time, seemed an alluring godsend of decency, and the famous Court of Love, presided over by the Vicomtesse de Cette, with the sea-green eyes, would, perhaps, have awarded the prize for coquetry to this canezou, in the contest for the prize of modesty. The most ingenious is, at times, the wisest. This does happen.

Brilliant of face, delicate of profile, with eyes of a deep blue, heavy lids, feet arched and small, wrists and ankles admirably formed, a white skin which, here and there allowed the azure branching of the veins to be seen, joy, a cheek that was young and fresh, the robust throat of the Juno of Ægina, a strong and supple nape of the neck, shoulders modelled as though by Coustou, with a voluptuous dimple in the middle, visible through the muslin; a gayety cooled by dreaminess; sculptural and exquisite—such was Fantine; and beneath these feminine adornments and these ribbons one could divine a statue, and in that statue a soul.

Fantine was beautiful, without being too conscious of it. Those rare dreamers, mysterious priests of the beautiful who silently confront everything with perfection, would have caught a glimpse in this little working-woman, through the transparency of her Parisian grace, of the ancient sacred euphony. This daughter of the shadows was thoroughbred. She was beautiful in the two ways—style and rhythm. Style is the form of the ideal; rhythm is its movement.

We have said that Fantine was joy; she was also modesty.

To an observer who studied her attentively, that which breathed from her athwart all the intoxication of her age, the season, and her love affair, was an invincible expression of reserve and modesty. She remained a little astonished. This chaste astonishment is the shade of difference which separates Psyche from Venus. Fantine had the long, white, fine fingers of the vestal virgin who stirs the ashes of the sacred fire with a golden pin. Although she would have refused nothing to Tholomyès, as we shall have more than ample opportunity to see, her face in repose was supremely virginal; a sort of serious and almost austere dignity suddenly overwhelmed her at certain times, and there was nothing more singular and disturbing than to see gayety become so suddenly extinct there, and meditation succeed to cheerfulness without any transition state. This sudden and sometimes severely accentuated gravity resembled the disdain of a goddess. Her brow, her nose, her chin, presented that equilibrium of outline which is quite distinct from equilibrium of proportion, and from which harmony of countenance results; in the very characteristic interval which separates the base of the nose from the upper lip, she had that imperceptible and charming fold, a mysterious sign of chastity, which makes Barberousse fall in love with a Diana found in the treasures of Iconia.

Love is a fault; so be it. Fantine was innocence floating high over fault.

[blogdemocratesjr]

Diogenes the Cynic with his lantern in search of an honest man by Giovanni Benedetto Castiglione

[redfoot08]

Diogenes Sitting in his Tub. Painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1860 CE)

I've chosen the painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1860 CE) of Diogenes sitting in his tub because I can relate to his story. Diogenes of Sinope was a Greek Cynic philosopher who walked around the marketplace of Greece (and later Athens) to find an honest man. Diogenes believed that the citizens of Greece and Athens lived in a fabricated world of manners and kind gestures for the purpose of burying the unifying naked truth of reality. He believed that the culture itself was a cradle for unprepared minds against whole truth. He would travel the streets of Greece or Athens (depending on the window of time) and beam a lantern into unsuspecting citizens faces to grill their dedication to formal interactions, steadily breaking down their cordial persona. Diogenes goal was to prove that what people called `manners' were simply lies used to hide the true nature of the individual. Fast forward to the year 2024 and we can see how this idea of manners, being a mask of deception, is propagated throughout our own culture. I really like this painting because it depicts Diogenes living in his tub, surrounded by lesser creatures, signifying that they may be the only ones listening. I relate with it, especially when looking out into the world and wondering if the pursuit of truth is dying. We live in a technological age of fabrication where media is being generated and not created. Determining what is truth and what isn't seems to be becoming a harder and harder task. A few examples of this include the gender crisis, America's two proxy wars, the possibility of election frauds during presidential elections, and a surprise epidemic of a new deadly virus. As Diogenes may have pondered before, I wonder if these major events, among the lot, could have been prevented or lessened if people were more oriented towards truth and action than simply observing and anticipating their next session of entertainment.

[seagull-astrology]

Barack Obama, 1st Inauguration

Bucket Temperament Diogenes and his lantern Barack Hussein Obama’s 1st inauguration on January 20, 2009, at 12 noon had the Ascendant of  13Taurus 56.  Sepharial wrote about 15o years ago about this Symbol that it denotes a “humble and conscientious nature that find pleasure in good works. …. The chief characteristic is the sense of justice and fraternity and shows a degree of…

[charlenasaxen]

Under the Pendulum Sun - Favorite Quotes

On the dawn of the first day of the seventh week

But then, given how sheltered I had been, the French were never quite real

Stone leaned against stone in a bizarre edifice, with nothing but scorn to the very concept of aesthetic consistency and structural purpose

“Little name for little gnome.”

learnt to drink contentment like you would a poison. Drop by drop, day by day. Until it became tolerable.

he had the soul of a soldier, a statesman and an orator.

those that languished in the grim empires without word of the Redeemer.

How could I limit an infinite God with finite words?

clung to the arc of its gleaming fins, trailing thin wisps of seeming light. Tail whipping back and forth, its scales shimmered, iridescent in its own light.

There were more suns and more worlds than I could dream. My mind would always be more finite than that of God.

as though I would tear the papery skin that held the coals of my soul in check.

but it is only Cook who could have realised that getting lost is intrinsic to journey.

how wrong is a falsehood told to support something true?

It depicted the lineage of Jesus, with David in the centre and each of the ancestors upon the petals of the rose

ethereally light and frothed around the needles

We’d drop all arguments when the right bird sang.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

The joyful sound proclaim

Till each remotest nation

Has learned Messiah’s name.

...

Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign.

I longed to hear my brother’s sermons again. He had a passion that surged under the measured cadence of his voice

“All the parishioners? I thought you were the only convert.”

“Me is all. All is we. We is me.”

a great work, though not one I imagined myself capable of being part of.

Is just their way of being made wrong. It’s in her nature.”

“That…” I swallowed. “That seems quite sad.”

The ornate stonework set the simple brick chapel to shame. Stone vines and stone rosettes framed each window.

“The bells call to the faithful,” I said. “We should wait.”

It’s easy to give hope to those who have lost. Who are lost. They were searching. He found.”

so guileless, childlike in its desire, that I smiled back.

its milk-pale, moonstone eyes lingering for just a moment

golden eyes seemed to soften as it regarded me, and then with an abrupt blink they turned blue.

“Diogenes? My dog?”

“I don’t know where your dog is.”

Laon whistled, piercingly, and the great black animal came loping back.

I couldn’t help the tears as I watched the mists swallow him. He was very so close.

and that is, the spirit of love.

The absence of that mysterious bond

to give one a more thorough appreciation of the blessings of Christianity

“Catherine!”

His walking stick clattered to the floor.

Strong arms enfolded me and cut me off

The food and castle… and the lantern that night. Thank you.”

She smiled a flame-red, lipless smile and her features lit up.

consumes secrets and digests them into less informative fragmentary whispers.

dripping with willow trees. An impossible river curled itself around the wooded island and caressed the water with its whispering leaves. I thought of uttered secrets, and an odd shiver crawled up my spine.

There was no humour in it. “Because she is most human.”

but it’s far less predictable than that. I’ve had distances given to me in numbers of daydreams and revelations, as though I’d only arrive somewhere after I’ve had an epiphany or–”

when we would lie under the apple tree and we could not tell what words were uttered and what words were thought; they were all intertwined

flung a gesticulating arm around us, causing Diogenes to let out a whine

assures me that his navigator is truly terrible and it would be no time before we are sufficiently lost as to be within sight of the Faelands.

afraid of the costs, the sacrifices. He wrote as a man haunted, counting the worth of his own soul.

I recognised the handwriting in the margins and I knew them to be my brother’s.

shattered the image of the endless fire into a broken sea. Livid, vivid red, like the stained glass images of Risen Christ

his were on me. I could feel his gaze on my skin and I ached to touch him again.

“Like the real moors? They choose for it to be empty.”

He nodded and turned to look out of the window with me.

glanced at him and our eyes met. He gave a half smile that brushed against the welkin blue of his eyes.

“That they have in them, captive, an oceanic fragment.”

I heard it first in my bones. Low and mournful

I could still see my brother’s long, beautiful fingers on that skin, stroking her cheek

“It is rather plain that he is very dear to you.” Her smile seemed sharper. “I trust you will prove a Balm of Gilead to your brother’s wounds.”

Tangled, flowering vines made up the handles, with tiny butterflies perched on each flower.

but for Christ, from whom gold thread radiated. Christ’s hands and feet had little red knots to symbolise His wounds. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

when the dark earth here swallows me and I earn my martyr’s crown.

petals of rose windows, where each light curves to a flame-like shape.

I read the first sentence my eyes settled onto: “And Tamar took the cakes which she had made, and brought them into the chamber to Amnon her brother.

There was a sweetness to our unspoken truce, and I glimpsed again the days of old

said Laon, the edges of his mouth threatening a smile. “You can’t just point out Light rhymes with Sight and then call it your proof.”

“I’m reading next.”

After, my brother insisted that he walk me back to my room, despite his limp and the stairs

“It’s not about that… It’s not that I need you, it’s that I want–”

and he squeezed my hand. He beamed at me and then he leaned over, his lips brushing against my ear

He was waiting, a dark, beautiful silhouette against the pendulum sun. He reached his hand to mine and our fingers tangled.

And then suddenly, it was pitch black.

The clock had started.

what I had thought to be trailing ribbons were but bandages around her wrists.

said Mr Benjamin, leaning over to me. “Baptised or otherwise.”

“Otherwise, I assume.”

snow-white feathers and even whiter fur. It trailed for yards behind her

He stood before the lectern, an unreadable calm upon his features.

Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.”

he said, “But unlike all others who have asked that question, I have before me a parliament of owls.”

...

Laon had found a place for the fae in the Bible in the very parables of Jesus.

It was a bite of forbidden food that cast Mankind from the garden, perhaps it is only right that a bite of the sacred should return us.

placed a taloned hand onto my shoulder as they walked me

when Laon had inherited them I had sewn on the green ribbons on an extravagant whim. I had worn those ribbons in my hair running through the moors. I remember him trying to snatch them from me as we rolled about in the heather.

its branches replete with stout candles. Drab nightingales flitted about, perching on the pendants

the window had been partially frosted over. The ice was like fine lace on the glass.

“But what are you doing?”

“On the Pale Queen’s orders,” it repeated firmly and closed the window with finality.

pulling out a pair of spectacles from its pocket and balancing them on its beak.

dipped it into its pot of shimmering blue ink. With its tongue lolling out in concentration, it began slowly drawing fine, fern-like frost onto the window.

“Important soul business, I am sure.

Silver willow trees sprung up within the castle, breaking apart the flagstones

He needed me to pick up the pieces of him. He needed me more than ever, though he did not know it yet.

end with us smiting each other a great many buffets on the helm.

“That’s a bed?” In a land full of strange and profane creatures, it was apparently this that strained my credulity.

held the snowflake to my eyes. Icy fronds bristled from a curved spine. It was shaped like a tiny feather.

My eyes lingered on one that had been cut from a vast tapestry

On its branches was an enormous eagle with a parcel at its feet. The bird regarded us with its round, orange eyes

“You- You’re…” he hesitated before finishing, “You’re quite pretty.”

The knot within my heart tightened.

reached up behind Laon to manipulate his neck before my brother turned sharply.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“I had thought the missionary had a wife, not a sister.”

“I have no wife.” Laon was staring hard

“Cathy, do you think me handsome?” asked Laon as we watched the dancers wheel around us

his large blue eyes and long brown lashes, the proud curve of his mouth?

“Beauty is of little consequence, brother. It hardly matters,” I said, forcing myself to look away.

I stole another glance. “I know your piercing gaze, Cathy.”

men unfolded into centaurs, backing away from the edge of the painting before galloping towards us and leaping

“I don’t know, the eye-blood-hand fae could be water aligned,” said Laon dryly.

will ever be as lonely as I have been.

Laon Helstone, private journals

placing a possessive hand upon her companion’s naked shoulder.

adjusting her brother’s unravelling toga

were no longer human in shape. A fox was tangled with a snow white rabbit. A lion stood on its hind legs, its front paws clinging to a skinless clockwork doll.

He was staring at me intently. The hunger in his eyes was both alien and achingly familiar.

He was the last real thing within these borders, under this unreal sun. No eyes could watch us here.

the waltz wheeled us around and around. Our feet flew across the marble floor, across the glass shards of a thousand broken mirrors

If all the fae are indeed animals, then that had some profoundly disturbing implications for our work

moreover, what of its fae inhabitants? After all, birds and beasts have no souls and do not need converting.

“Thank you for telling me.”

She grinned, less wide than usual with a touch of melancholy

Through them all, the sincerity of Elizabeth Clay’s faith shone brightly.

she wrote with an undeniable ferocity.

Roche, at times, seemed more enthused about his future bride’s theological education than any other attribute.

She will hunt, so she needs some fae to hunt. It needs to be one of us. And I thought, it can be Benjamin.”

No foxes, no deer. Just us. Us fae.” He gave a half shrug, his bony shoulders sharp under his clothes.

Surer than sure. It is what I need to do.”

“But, Mr Benjamin, we can’t possibly allow…”

“Please, Miss Helstone. Allow me the martyr’s crown.”

I have read the book. Christ has spoken, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”

Verily I say unto thee, Today shalt thou be with me in paradise. Come with me to chapel. You read to me before I die and we sing

“But no path can do this. No other path.” His voice was somewhere between his usual accent and that Oxford Voice he liked so much

“Allow me the martyr’s crown. With it you can buy Arcadia. Open the gates. Walk the paths.

Your life is not mine nor my brother’s to spend. But I will go with you to the chapel.”

It was like finding pebbles under sun-warmed dirt.

Would I see him again in paradise?

For all the wear upon my well-read Bible, for all the times I had turned to it for strength

Did they also feel this helpless, watching their own fall to plague and sword?

“If Christ can ransom the world, perhaps I can buy back my own kind,”

He smiled as though at his own joke. “Tell me the story I will be part of. The story of our sin and our salvation.”

from his entering of Jerusalem to the moment of his execution. The name of this castle, Gethsemane, took on new meaning.

without taking his eyes off the altar.

“You are staying here?”

“As long as I can,” he said. “The hunt will begin soon.”

we could not outrun the will of Mab.

“No,” I said, quite quietly. “Render therefore unto Caesar

“I am not angry about that. I am angry that you were not there to pray with him, to sing with him, to hear his last words. He prays now, alone, because you were not there.”

“Cathy!”

“You should go to him.”

You need someone and it should be me. You should not be alone here.”

“I want you here. More than anything.”

If only I could run fast enough, far enough.” Crumpled over, I had never seen my proud, beautiful brother look as defeated.

There is no sin in the slaying of one without a soul.”

“Oh but what is a soul, dear sister?”

Was this how His apostles felt at the eve of Christ’s execution?

I did not want to witness this. I remembered Mr Benjamin’s trusting eyes and his myriad questions

imagined how bare words would one day try to recreate this moment and I could not. The first fae martyr. If nothing else, I should witness this.

it bolted. Its brown hair and torn clothes streamed as it dove into the undergrowth.

It ran on two legs, not four.

It was Miss Davenport.

that briefly formed hands, fingers, lips, before melting again into the mist. It flowed like water,

“Good, Cathy,” she whispered, voice tremulous.

“Take my horse,” I said. “You should be able to get away.

“I had suspicions. And the Pale Queen knows. I’ve seen your human, the real Catherine Helstone.”

as though a part of me always knew the truth. It suddenly made sense: my discontentment, my ambitions, my feelings for Laon.

pushing them back into my hands as she shook her head. “You have to kill me.”

“I won’t. Please, Ariel.”

She smiled. There was a softness to her smile

that familiarity I had of her turning into affection.

he didn’t care. He worried about my soul when I had none.”

The sound of the hunting horn broke her reverie.

“You have to kill me. Don’t let your brother do it.”

To make them sin. To make them fall. Protect him for me. I beg you. Promise me.”

You haven’t changed. You are who you are–”

“But I’m not her.”

“You’re still my sister.”

It had been so red earlier, so vivid.

How was there still blood on me?

“She loved you, you know,” I said. “Davenport. The fake one. She loved you.”

“I know.”

I chased his kisses with my own, and he wound his fingers through my wet hair. We fumbled at his clothes until his pale skin was against mine.

He was so very real.

At the base of it was affixed a small, slender bone. A finger bone.

I choked back a bitter, acid mouthful.

finally leaving and adding, quite quietly, “Good fakes are same as real.”

“You used to make little animals out of my bread. You would ask me to give them voices and we used to tell stories about them.”

I didn’t correct him about my name. I supposed that Ariel shared her name with the real Ariel Davenport.

I wondered if perhaps she could be Catherine and I could be Cathy.

my corrupt heart, as it is, cold to the spirit and warm to the flesh

All that and you worry about us?”

“You are my sister.”

“I’m not; I’m not even real.” A delirious laugh rang out

it was difficult to believe.

And there was so much blood.

The shawl that Ariel had gifted me was draped over the back of a chair in the middle of the room, where I could see it at all times if I choose to look.

then again for a little while after her father’s. I remembered counting the threads in the quilt, willing my world to be just that warm, soft embrace. He had taken care of me then.

it grew to be further littered with curiosities he had brought me: a music box with a trilling bird; his old sketch book and half-faded paints; spools of bright thread and yards of linen.

“What is it?”

He shrugged. “Dusty, mostly.”

awkwardly returning the embrace.

He leaned his head against my shoulder, allowing himself to be enveloped. It was a closeness that made me ache.

tapping his finger affectionately against my nose.

I frowned at his levity.

And then it struck me.

it was just an excuse, you would fall asleep so quickly when you clung to me.”

“You were warm,” I muttered in half confession.

“And your bed smelt nice.”

“My bed smelt of me.”

My voice grew smaller and my fingers agitated. “Exactly.”

He grinned.

“And you promised not to ever bring it up again.”

Catherine Helstone’s brother laughed, his blue eyes far brighter

His fingers brushed against mine and we laced hands together

I could feel his heartbeat through his hand.

“Sea whale ambergris could smell like cheap wine.”

“You on Saturday night, then?”

obsessed with the idea of the whale as fate, that Jonah tried to escape from the sight of God and the will of God, but he could not.

And since there is nowhere beyond the sight of God, his prayers are heard and he is saved.”

“Did Roche not want to come to Arcadia?”

Jutting out his bottom lip, he huffed his own hair from his eyes. It was getting rather long.

We gazed into the water. Transparent roses grew at the bottom of it, each illuminated by a pale red light. Slowly they bloomed, soft petals opening like a mouth

their fins and tails spread gloriously. Underwater, their sickly pallor became the most translucent of shimmering whites

“Lands we never thought we’d see,” I said, a touch wistful for our old games. “What did we call their leader again?”

He answered immediately

He was standing very close to me and all at once I was all too aware of him.

Each memory seemed to lead me inexorably to this point where I was standing before him, slightly too close and far too afraid.

why I felt this ache whenever I saw Catherine Helstone’s brother

He was simply there, too close, too real and too beautiful.

“What do you mean?”

his mouth twisted into a smirk before he leaned over in a kiss

indeed like writing the newsletters and journals for our tin soldiers. More than once, we wondered at what our little tin Duke of Wellington would make of this place

You will always be my Cathy and you will always be my sister.”

I raised an eyebrow at that, and he had the decency to look sheepish.

“And other things, true,”

you shouldn’t think of yourself as less real. And I do have to call you something.”

I doubted you because of my own weakness. You are the sister I grew up with, the sister I have loved and love now. And that’s all that matters.”

In the light of that fire, we mourned the loss of that strange world we glimpsed but did not quite understand and further laboured to record its fleeting image

Still, for all the weight upon my heart, those may have been my happiest days, lost in our work and in each other.

Blackwood’s Magazine, December 1846

“Making the seasons happen. Am sure he’ll get to the leaves on the trees next.”

“Doesn’t that just… happen?

“So it doesn’t forget what it is?” Catherine Helstone’s brother said, pausing

It would give great comfort to me if I could read from its bones the identity of my devourer.”

The resemblance between Catherine Helstone’s brother and I had brought me great joy in the past. It was our closeness, our history written upon our flesh

he would look in the mirror and see my eyes gaze out at him. I wondered now if he would see her eyes instead of mine

He gave a preening smile, and I wanted to laugh at his vanity

“I don’t…” I swallowed, unwilling to admit ignorance. “We’ll find out.”

He met my gaze with a smile. “Together.”

“It’ll be worth it.” He smiled winningly. His cloudless blue eyes sparkled.

“Because you would never be lost.”

My hand closed around it, trying to bury the pain of his confession.

gems that looked like iridescent animal eyes, tiny castles hanging on strings

Pretty penny, pretty trinket! Ugly penny, ugly trinket!”

“Real mermaid tears! Fake chickens’ teeth!”

Catherine Helstone’s brother wrapped an arm around me and drew me closer.

I had pinned it to Catherine Helstone’s sister at her funeral. I remember it glinting at me

Catherine Helstone’s brother pinned it to the front of my dress, and my fingers played over its familiar details

“Are you selling doors?” I asked.

“I also sell locks, if that helps,” said the long-faced fae

she eyed him. “And you really should.”

He took a step forwards, an edge of confrontation in his voice as his hand tightened protectively around mine

“I can pay you,” said Catherine Helstone’s brother.

“But what?”

“Name a price.”

“I suppose you would need something to keep your bits in. I probably have a bearskin somewhere.”

“Would that make me a bear?”

“Don’t know. I suppose. You could always take it off? Humans are so fiddly sometimes.”

Catherine Helstone’s brother was considering the deal far too seriously.

You call them eyes, right? If I could take them and an arm and a leg? Is that fair?”

I’m not greedy, I wouldn’t ask for all of you. You want half of her back, so I ask for half of you.”

“Half of her?”

“But I am not real,” I said, firmly. I could not abide by his delusion.

“Real to me.” He gave my hand a quick, affectionate squeeze.

“I won’t let you do this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s your eyes!

“But it might help.” He gave me a gentle, mournful smile. His hand brushed against my cheek; I pulled away. “I love you.”

“No, there are no more words.”

“What–”

“Cathy, I love you.”

“No, Laon!” I called after him. “Laon!”

He turned.

He waited. I watched his throat tremble as he swallowed.

we were alone. He was the only real thing here. “Because,” I said. “Because I love you.”

Which of us closed the distance between us didn’t matter, only that we became entwined.

We laughed, momentarily forgetting where we were.

The mists did not forget, though. They danced around us, luridly realising what we both wanted.

I felt his breath against my neck as our arms entwined. I breathed to him the words that I had so long denied the both of us.

Translated from Enochian by Rev Laon Helstone and Catherine Helstone

Sunlight woke me and I was beside him.

Blushing, I remembered how we had tumbled into the bed

kisses were exchanged between the scribbled sheets and the ink of our words was blotted onto my skin.

Sunlight flattered him. It gave his skin a warm glow and made his eyelashes cast shadows upon the planes of his cheeks.

But it was a very sweet dream.

His eyes opened and he smiled at the sight of me.

remembering how I had once teased him for being inappropriately Byronic in his demeanour.

“Byron would–”

“Oh hush, you are nothing like Lord Byron. Your poetry is abysmal.”

“Exactly like him then.”

Laon grinned rakishly at that

hands fluttering between my mouth and the page. “This is their genesis.”

picked up each of the birds. I felt their little trembling hearts as they beat their brittle wings against my hands.

I woke screaming.

We did not try to leave the door open again.

They were as beautiful as the blushing dawn, as the twilight sky

reassured Laon, his blue eyes wonderfully soft

There was a comfort in ancient, beautiful words, I supposed.

“Almost sounds like when we sang in past,” said Mr Benjamin, a little wistful

“The Reverend is here, I speak often of the Reverend. And to the Reverend,”

He caught my hand and gave each of my fingers a light, punctuating kiss. His eyes flashed dark

“Two impossibilities doesn’t make a new reality.” His hair fell into his eyes, and he raked his fingers through it.

“True, but… I want to try.”

Laon nodded. “Then we try.”

could not really be commanded. However, the moon, being a fish, could sometimes be lured over, given sufficient bait.

taking a deep breath, I rang it.

An ethereal tinkling

empty eyes and long, curved teeth, yellow as ivory. I could see the bleeding, exposed gums at the roots of its teeth. It was swimming far too close.

The corridor was indeed gilded silver by the moonlight.

Laon and I walked down it, hand in hand.

“I told you it was a good present,” said Laon proudly.

The double doors opened

by Rev Laon Helstone and Catherine Helstone

I knew who the woman in black was.

“Laon.”

My own voice sounded distant, as though it came from another’s throat. I wondered why my mind hadn’t shattered.

the towers of books enclosing us reminded me of the many times we hid from Tessie in the far corners of the library.

nothing would hurt more than the truth and the fae would do anything to hurt him.”

Bede and poetry and a book about lost time.

Laon offered me his hip flask and I took it.

once a Khazar princess slept with letters inscribed upon her eyelids that killed as soon as they were read.

“What did he do?” There was fear in Laon’s voice now.

“He needed someone for them to break.

It was all falling away. “The colour of the nightingale’s blood upon the whitest rose… No, not that either…”

I pulled away from his anchoring presence. He was too real.

“He has to be a good man. He needs to be.” He turned away. He took a deep, trembling breath. “He must be.”

the letters vague and black before me, too large to read, too large to be of any sense. I remembered myself feasting on its secrets, drinking in the dark, dark ink.

“I can’t say…”

“She was here. The three of you sang hymns together. Then she did something. It inspired you…”

“So, miss,” said the gnome, quite determined now. “Will you bring Benjamin with you?”

“Of course.”

Relief broke

and by worthy communicants truly received.

That they don’t see themselves as people, but as parts of stories. That they play again and again the roles they were born to.”

taking a hesitant step closer. He was clearly horrified to see anyone in such a state. “Betha? Is that you?”

“I’ll give it to you, Elizabeth,” I said, prying her cold fingers away and unpinning it

“How can you not know where you are? What this place is?”

smearing the fresh blood upon it.

“Laon,” I forced from my throat. I could barely breathe. “I know.”

I will love them both. I will bring her dolls of flesh to save her from that pain.

spoke words for the human woman alone, pleading, loving words

“Is there not milk?” I asked. She blinked. “I thought you were a changeling.”

But he didn’t realise that the truth they will break with is the truth of his own self. Mirrors are terrible things.

barking out a single sharp, abrasive laugh. “They didn’t salt it.”

“Why?”

“She trusted.

from there he saved human souls. “That’s why she’s trying to kill herself. To escape.”

Salamander was pacing around us, licks of flames coiling. “Suicide is the worst sin.”

“It is mine to commit.

“I need this to end. Please.” She cast her beseeching eyes upon me. “Let me die.”

For the first and last time, bells rang

The Salamander enfolded Elizabeth Clay in her fiery embrace, cooing a lullaby to her as we ascended the steps.

did not have such scrutiny, such creation. Our patchwork world needed to be made piece by stolen piece.

Because–” I stopped.

And then all at once we both knew the terrible truth.

“They brought you here for a reason,” said Laon, a dark calm in his voice cutting through my panic. “Mirrors are terrible things.

Our love had been the last pure, real thing that I had clung to and it was slipping away.

“You’re crying,” he said.

My hands flew to my face. It was wet with tears

“Laon!” Tears were rolling sticky wet down my face. There was too much I wanted to say; it welled up inside me

filled me with gut-wrenching revulsion.

He laughed, threw his head back and just laughed.

“I thought you were an apparition to tempt me.” His beautiful mouth twisted cruel.

my own sister. I thought–”

“Laon, no…”

“You’re my sister,” he said again.

He did not push me away.

“My grand scheme.” She made a gesture towards the clockwork that framed her throne. “The sins that I have set in motion

it was all you…” muttered Laon. There was little defiance left in him, only a dark despair.

He glanced over at me, that guilt heavy in his eyes.

“I wish it still.”

“Very well.”

And one of those thoughts would have broken me, but here I was still standing.

The last sanctuary before the end

a love letter to humanity, a portrait drawn by someone too besotted to understand what they saw.

We had not the purity of ambition, the strength of spirit, the firmness of faith. Our minds would cloud and our hopes would waver.

And yet, I wanted to go.

Not worthy of you, of this,” he said. “I should go home, where God can judge me. I’ve run away from my sins for long enough.”

made us face our own worst selves. Face each other’s. They cannot do more.”

“Brother, look at me.”

He turned to me.

Despite his tempestuous thoughts, his blue eyes were still pools

He placed his hand over mine.

“There is redemption yet, brother.”

“There is a world that has been deaf to the Word of God, hidden from His eyes

But you and I,” I gave a grim smile, “we have nothing to fear.”

“Because there is nothing more they can do.” He held my hand now painfully tight

“Either way,” said Laon, beaming now. I returned the smile and I knew what he was going to say next. “We should find out.”

[tklist1]

Publius Rutilius Rufus: Rome's 'Last Honest Man' https://tklist.us/?p=33493

Banished for debasing the currency from his home city in what is now north-central Turkey, Diogenes of Sinope chose to beg in the streets of Corinth and Athens, live in a clay jar, and eschew wealth of any kind. The story is often told that he walked the streets with a lantern, looking in vain […]

[infjtarot]

Hermit. Weiser Waite Smith Tarot

A man stands, cloaked, holding a lamp in his hand to guide his way. His long beard and old age suggest that he has not had human company for some time. The Hermit represents social isolation, in both its benefits and its detriments. Isolation can bring clarity, peace, and meditation. But it can also make us lonely and eccentric. Both outcomes are possible with this card. The Hermit is given the number nine. Sometimes it is important to get away, shut yourself off from noise, stop asking for other people’s input, and do the work you want to do. This isn’t about the noise of the internet, about social media, about wasting your productivity on checking email instead of doing creative work. Although yes to all of that, do try to find a space outside of that buzz. This is more about moving away from the collective, having the confidence in your own work to stand on your own, and no longer being swayed by other people’s opinions of what you should do. Certainly we benefit at times from an outsider perspective. When we work in a group or collaborate with a partner, we get vital information and inspiration. But sometimes those voices can lead us astray. Someone will say something negative about what you are doing, that comment sticks in your head, and all of a sudden you are ready to make drastic changes just to please someone else. The Hermit asks us to pull away from outside influences. The artists Claude Cahun and Marcel Moore had a strong community of collaborators, partners, and peers in Paris between the wars. This tight-knit group of artists, writers, theater folk, and musicians influenced one another heavily, working together constantly and sharing ideas. But Cahun and Moore wanted to pull away a bit; try something different. And so they moved to Jersey Island, located in the English Channel separating France and England. There they began collaborating on strange, beautiful photographs. They were a long series of self-portraits of Cahun—Marcel worked the camera—that predated the work of artists such as the Mexican painter Frida Kahlo and the American conceptual photographer Cindy Sherman. Outside the influence of the Paris cabal, they found a purer voice; a more authentic way of working. They weren’t totally alone—they had each other—but they were isolated socially and physically from the art world. So much so that their work was not discovered or displayed until after their deaths. Pulling the Hermit doesn’t mean you have to go build a cabin in the woods, although if you’ve had the impulse to do it, why not? But it does mean that perhaps you need to shore up your boundaries a bit and make sure you’re not taking on too many other people’s opinions as your own. On the flip side, the Hermit card originates with the story of Diogenes, the ancient Greek philosopher who went out with his lantern, looking for one honest man. He never found one, of course. We all lie, we all cheat in our ways. If one has taken the Hermit too far, you might find yourself isolated like Diogenes, with standards so high that not a single human being on the planet (including yourself) could clear them. Make sure your isolation has not turned into stubborn arrogance. If you think no one knows better than you about anything, you probably need to start thinking a little less of yourself and a little more of others. RECOMMENDED MATERIALS The photography of Claude Cahun and Marcel Moore Gravity and Grace, book by Simone Weil Walden, book by Henry David Thoreau

[casino-bunker]

The Philosopher Diogenes searches for an honest man in the City of London with his Lantern