She realized that that crown was the same crown and always had been. Her story really was over now; Ariadne would be forever alone, prisoner of that radiant crown in the sky: Corona Boralis.
Poeto-logos does not equal nihilism. It is the yes-saying that resounds “Yes!” eternally across the heavens. (There is more than one heaven).
And there the darkness was rend by a dazzling crown. Fiery gold and Indian jewels. Dionysus offered Ariadne the crown as a gift on the occation of this their first embrace. Sign of perfection, “herald of propitious silence,” the crown was a circle of seduction. But to seduce also means “to destroy” in Greek: phtheírein. The crown is the perfection of deceit, it is the deceit that circles in on itself, it is that perfection which includes deceit within it.
Sing the true singing. No more cacophonic dissonance. No more of that racket-and-rattling from Californian neo-Gnostic-theo-sophistry. The divine melody is a freedom from bad Heideggerians. I imitate in order to destroy.
Just a beach lashed by thundering waves, an abstract place where only the seaweed moves. It is the island where no one lives, the place where obsession turns round and round on itself, with no way out. A constant flaunting of death.
Mythical figures live many lives, die many deaths, and in this they differ from the characters we find in novels, who can never go beyond the single gesture. But in each of these lives and deaths all the others are present, and we can hear their echo. Only when we become aware of a sudden consistency between incompatibles can we say we have crossed the threshold of myth.
Vladamir Propp suggests that märchen, or fairytales (as in the Grimm, as in Urashima and the Scottish “Rhymer”) contain the most clear expositions of the universal grammar of human narrative. If one became familiar with 100 tales, then one would begin to speak the language of mythology itself. It would be a bilinguality that extends towards both ends of the Tree - roots and branches, growing and swirling, snarling, and breathing – ascending with Icarus to the utmost heights of air, while burrowing down with Orpheus down into the deep cloak of cold, living earth. Why wait for destruction by water? Wouldn't morphology become a method of self-transformation?
Lévi-Strauss suggests that leitmotifs are like partie. Partie = French: component; match and game set; Frenchmen lined around a cedar-carved table in an improvised smoke-filled back-of-tavern casino, cards played, shuffled and reshuffled. What’s up yer’ sleeve there, cowboy? Zeus, Appollo, Shamash, Izanagi, Napoleon, Stalin, Agamemnon, Baal and Mammon.
Pythagoras believed in reincarnation. Pythagoras was a vegetarian. Pythagoras “prohibited his disciples from beans.” Some scholars suggest that perhaps he believed there were human souls there within the seeds of a plant. Other scholars suggest that Pythagoras simply hated politics. Beans were used in the demos to cast one’s vote. Black bean = no. White bean = yes. Yes!
Mystery in Crete, was made plain to all, no one tried to hide it. The “unnameable things” that abounded in Attica were laid open to everybody. But there was no sense of challenge about this, Crete, with its hundred cities and not a single defense around them, looked like a huge plaything. Only a tidal wave or dark raiders striking from the sea, could have been its doom
There is no grand artisan. There is no demiurgical-watchmaker-intellect. The maps drew themselves; there is no hand-nor-eye that dare frame thy symmetry. The blind-one was only a spectre. The cards deal themselves; they play and inter-play of their own accord. Kick the charlatans out of the casino.
The goddess was always ready to dray her bow. Dionysus asks her to transfix Ariadne with an arrow. And he wants to watch too. Then time turns all to euphemism. All that will remain on the walls of Pompeii is an image of celestial love.
Abiogenesis is a cosmological impossibility. Abiogenesis is a no-saying. Time obeys only the heirogamy of celestial intercourse.
…on a votive table, an image of Hera’s mouth closing amorously around Zeus’s erect phallus … Her name was Io. In looks and dress it was Io’s duty to re-create the image of the goddess she served. She was a copy endeavoring to imitate a statue. But Zeus chose the copy … and he wanted it because it was a difference, and her because she was a copy … Zeus’s other adventures, all Hera’s other vendettas, would be nothing more than further heaves on that same wheel of necessity.”
Eros is the thaumaturgical power of blood. It is the music that animates the spheres from their crystalline slumber.