#denique

[apenitentialprayer]

Virginity is a commendable virtue, but humility an indispensable one. The first is of counsel, the latter a precept. Of the one it is said, "he that can take it, let him take it" [Matthew 19:12]. Of the other, "unless you become as little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven" [Matthew 18:3]. To the one reward is offered; the other is exacted under threat. Again, we can be saved without virginity, not without humility.

Bernard of Clairvaux (Missus Est, Sermon 1). Original Latin of bolded lines below.

Laudabilis virtus virginitas, sed magis necessaria humilitas . . . Potes denique sine virginitate salvari; sine humilitate non potes.

[hollowsart]

y'know.. that's one major thing I really love about Mysterio, in the comics there is not really any sign at all of him knowing or speaking latin. but in tssm they decided to give him that little quirk. and honestly?? it's soooo good that they did. the way they handled the latin is hilarious because the translations are HILARIOUS:

Denique diatem efficacem inveni! = I have finally found an effective diet!

Credo Elvem ipsum etiam vivere! = I believe Elvis is alive!

Tibi gratias agimus quod nihil fumas! = Thank you for not smoking!

Nullae satisfactionis potiri non possum! = I can't get no satisfaction!

Elvem! = Elvis!

The man is literally just spewing nonsense and it's hilarious, although a few things he says are understandable and not complete and utter nonsensical latin:

Dormite! = Sleep!

Chelicerata. = Spiders (etc.).

Fulmina venite! = Come lightning!

In toto ancto es! = You're in for a world of hurt!

I think they should have him speak latin in the comics. I think that would be fun and enjoyable. It would also lead to more entertaining translations like these^^

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Denique isto bono utare, dum adsit, cum absit, ne requiras: nisi forte adulescentes pueritiam, paulum aetate progressi adulescentiam debent requirere. cursus est certus aetatis et una via naturae eaque simplex, suaque cuique parti aetatis tempestivitas est data, ut et infirmitas puerorum et ferocitas iuvenum et gravitas iam constantis aetatis et senectutis maturitas naturale quiddam habet, quod suo tempore percipi debeat.

- Cicero, On Old Age

In short, enjoy the blessing of strength while you have it and do not bewail it when it is gone, unless, forsooth, you believe that youth must lament the loss of infancy, or early manhood the passing of youth. Life's race-course is fixed; Nature has only a single path and that path is run but once, and to each stage of existence has been allotted its own appropriate quality; so that the weakness of childhood, the impetuosity of youth, the seriousness of middle life, the maturity of old age - each bears some of Nature's fruit, which must be garnered in its own season.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Nec multis verbis nec circumitu longo, quod sit summum bonum, colliges; digito, ut ita dicam, demonstrandum est nec in multa spargendum. Quid enim ad rem pertinet in particulas illud diducere, cum possis dicere: summum bonum est, quod honestum est? Et quod magis admireris: unum bonum est, quod honestum est, cetera falsa et bona sunt. Hoc si persuaseris tibi et virtutem adamaveris, amare enim parum est, quicquid illa contigerit, id tibi, qualecumque aliis videbitur, faustum felixque erit. Et torqueri, si modo iacueris ipso torquente securior, et aegrotare, si non male dixeris fortunae, si non cesseris morbo, omnia denique, quae ceteris videntur mala, et mansuescent et in bonum abibunt, si super illa eminueris.

To infer the nature of this Supreme Good, one does not need many words or any round-about discussion; it should be pointed out with the forefinger, so to speak, and not be dissipated into many parts. For what good is there in breaking it up into tiny bits, when you can say: the Supreme Good is that which is honourablea? Besides (and you may be still more surprised at this), that which is honourable is the only good; all other goods are alloyed and debased. If you once convince yourself of this, and if you come to love virtue devotedly (for mere loving is not enough), anything that has been touched by virtue will be fraught with blessing and prosperity for you, no matter how it shall be regarded by others. Torture, if only, as you lie suffering, you are more calm in mind than your very torturer; illness, if only you curse not Fortune and yield not to the disease—in short, all those things which others regard as ills will become manageable and will end in good, if you succeed in rising above them.

—Lucius Annæus Seneca, Ad Lucilium epistolæ morales, epis lxxi (c 64 CE). Below: Swallow over Quince - from The Painted Garden Mural in Livia Drusilla's Villa at Prima Porta, north of Rome. 

[Robert Scott Horton]

[justacanofcorn]

quam amiterre ludum (losing the game) James Moriarty x OC

Chapter Two: unum denique mane

Chapter One

Description: Anora arrived on the first day of class. Anora visits an old house. one fine morning.

Anora quickly discovered that the first day of school, whether you're eight or eighteen or twenty eight, is terrifying, regardless of whether or not a person is disguised as their deceased brother. 

In the short time between Joseph's death and the start of term, Anora settled her parents’ estate because she knew she wouldn't be able to maintain the house. The money left over, of which there was still a substantial amount, she tucked away in a savings account. It did not last long. What came to light next was her father's hidden gambling habits. The money from the estate cut in half.

She knew that rent for even a cheap flat and what her, or Joseph's, scholarship didn't cover would begin to total high eventually. Her family lawyer did try to ask questions about why she sold the estate, to his credit, but she managed to wave them away. No one wants to engage with an emotionally volatile young woman who has enough money to survive, even with the bare essentials, on her own. She's of no consequence to anyone, hardly to herself.

She couldn't stay in the dormitories anyway, that much was abundantly clear. Not only would it be strange for someone almost thirty, or supposedly thirty, to share a room with someone as young as eighteen, but there was the standing issue of gender. Anora doubted that she could last more than a week in a building full of men. Men are less shameful about their bodies. Sooner or later someone would wonder why hers is always covered. 

On the first day she likely tried too hard to perfect her appearance. She spent close to an hour on the look of her clothes and hair. If it was too neat it might draw attention. If it was too unruly it would definitely draw attention. She tried to think back to how Joseph would dress before he left. Then all she could think about was his smile or the way he'd help her cross the small streams behind the cottage in the hot country summers. She stopped worrying about her appearance then. After she was dressed, the only thing she truly paid attention to was tucking her locket under her shirt and smoothing putty over her earlobes to cover her piercings. 

Her first lecture of the day was history of science, as condensed as that subject could be, then a study hall period, then a mathematics course at noon.

While the two siblings both enjoyed each subject, where Joseph was perhaps more distinguished in chemistry, Anora excelled at maths. She more than loved the way every problem had an exact solution. Even in the sciences things can get too theoretical. When she could break a problem down to its very core with a handful of numbers, Anora felt more powerful than she ever did in a suit.

The lecture hall for the maths class was taller than it was wide, framed by windows that allowed for the brightest light of day to stream in. Whoever the professor, he had a handful of charms to personalize the space, strangely of which was a dead houseplant. Not that Anora had room for judgment; she'd kill the toughest cactus alive if given enough time.

Joseph was good with plants.

She sat next to a young man towards the middle, for the middle was often the safest place to be. In the very front or the very back prove time and time again to be too conspicuous. A professor wants to call on students too eager or too shy. Of course, Anora wanted to excel, and she wanted her professors to know that she deserved her seat, but maybe they didn't need to be reminded all day every day.

When she sat, the young man next to her greeted her with a wide white smile and coiffed black hair.

“Don't think I've seen you around. I'm Lucius,” he said, extending a hand for a friendly greeting which Anora accepted. She settled with herself early on that taking a vow of silence would not help her case, so she was fortunate in her ability to lower her voice without it sounding forced.

“Joseph. So you've been around then?”

“More or less. My parents were very enthusiastic about orientations and guided tours of the campus. Most of us met in the introductory week.”

At the “us”, Lucius gestured vaguely to the young me around them. Anora began to wonder just how well she fit in. Even at twenty eight she knew she could easily pass for a young man of eighteen. But Joseph's paperwork said thirty, so that was her age.

Anora was looking for a natural way to end the conversation when a figure in a long robe entered the room and closed the door behind him. Immediately, the chatter around her ceased.

“Good afternoon, class. As this is a prerequisite course, I feel it is safe to assume introductions are in order. My name is Professor James Moriarty. You may recognize me from both your schedules and the required reading for this class. It is my book but to defend the vanity, it was peer reviewed by the academic standards committee, my colleagues across universities, and my neighbor.”

The class chuckled and Anora fell in with them. There was nothing particularly imposing about the man save for his supposed notoriety, and there was something comforting in his voice.

“Of course, my neighbor is eighty seven and doesn't speak a word of the Queen's English, so how much her opinion counts for is still open for debate.”

Again, there was a light laughter that flitted through the hall. Anora smiled. If it was going to be like this the entire time, things might just work out in her favor.

-

“Alive?”

“The last time I saw him, yes.”

Holmes chews on his dinner as if he isn't delivering world-shattering news.

“And when exactly was the last time?”

“When he was hauling himself out of the river on one side, and I myself on the other.”

Anora gawks at him.

“And that was the last?”

“Am I to believe you're in school?”

He's insulting her intelligence but she doesn't care.

“Again, you joke as if you either don't think or don't know the ridiculousness of what you're saying.”

“Well, between the two of us, I'm more inclined to believe myself when it comes to the things I say.”

“Oh, I'm quite sure you are. Have you ever thought to consider that as the source for your neuroticism?”

Mary places a hand atop her husband's. 

“John, maybe we should try this a different-”

“No,” Holmes sets down his fork and pulls the napkin from his collar. “We don't have time to cater to the whim of emotions. Apologies, dear Mary, but this must be handled swiftly and urgently.”

The detective’s head ticks and Anora's face goes hot at his quip about emotion.

“What could possibly lead you to believe I would have any inkling as to his whereabouts?”

Everything Anora says is laced with a light laughter because she's trying to outdo him. She's trying to catch him up in his own words to keep any more from spilling out. She's really only protecting herself and her stupid pride. Holmes knows this. He taps a finger against the table cloth.

“It's one thing to ask me that, but if you expect me to answer, then you're insulting us both. You know why.”

It isn't because he thinks she's still working with the professor. It's because he believes she has to know something about him that the detective doesn't, or couldn't possibly know. Because of the nature of their relationship.

“Insult? You mean to speak to me about insult? What about this performance?” Anora turns to the doctor. “I came to you at the church out of sympathy. I took your invitation out of goodwill for you and your wife.”

Anora stands, tries to gather herself. She speaks softer to Holmes.

“I don't know where he is. I don't want to know, I hope to God I never see him or you again.”

She breaks into the hall and retrieves her coat. Mary protests, someone stands from the table, and Anora's hands are shaking too furiously to get the buttons on her coat done right.

“Miss Leeds!” It's Mary's voice that calls out to her and the woman finds her in the foyer. She sighs. “Anora. I'm sorry about that-”

“Don't apologize for him. I know who he is, that's why I meant what I said.”

Anora finally finishes with the last button. Mary puts a gentle hand on her arm.

“You can help them do a good thing. A just thing.”

In her eyes, Anora can tell that she believes her own words. And perhaps there's truth to them, but it's a truth she doesn't want to entertain right now, maybe not ever.

“Mrs. Watson-”

“Mary,” she smiles.

“Mary. You seem absolutely lovely, and I wish nothing but the best for you and your family.”

Anora pats Mary's hand and pulls away with a sense of finality. “I'm sorry to have wasted good food.”

On the street, once she's out of eyesight, Anora clutches her stomach and heaves a sob into an alleyway. Couples cast her strange glances (who is drunk at this time of day in this part of town?) but she recovers in a timely fashion. She's not very familiar with her surroundings but she's studied enough maps of London to know the area, and there's only one place she wants to go to right now.

Her fingers find the hidden key that resides under a rock by his mailbox. When the pain was still fresh, when it mattered more, letters were practically spilling out of the box. Anora would read the envelopes on the days she made a point to pass by. But now it sits empty, because no one lives here anymore.

She would come here more frequently in the immediate months that followed but recently, she has felt the hollow aching subsiding more and more. Sherlock Holmes saw to reopening that wound tonight. And for what? To mock her?

Anora lights the fireplace first as the sun has already set and the house is freezing. She dusts cobwebs off what she can. A walk to a wardrobe reveals one of her old nightgowns, some forgotten tattered thing. She strips from her dress and slips into the shift, then covers with one of his robes. Walking back to the study, she mindlessly acquires his textbook, a bottle of wine, and settles onto the couch, under a mound of blankets. It's not so bad, now, with the flames and alcohol and weight keeping her warm. She doesn't open the book; she doesn't need to. She simply likes having it around. 

Halfway through the bottle, Anora begins to watch the flames cast dancing shadows onto the rich paneling of the walls. The statuettes on the mantle become tall creatures and their silhouettes cut against a window that displays a star-lit sky. She can't see the moon from here. 

One of the blankets is fur, and the hairs tickle her cheek. She leans into the sensation. Everything reminds her of him.

Maybe it's the heat, it must be the heat, because it feels faintly like breath fans her face. Lips press lightly to her temple and breathe.

“You match your namesake perfectly. Did you know that?”

It's when she feels a strand of hair come loose that Anora bolts upwards on the couch, breathing heavily. The bottle lays empty and discarded on the floor with no evidence of a spill. The fire is dying. Outside, the stars are beginning to fade.

And sitting in one of the larger chairs, half concealed by the shadows the dark are still able to provide, is the detective.

Anora is surprised, but still too tired and drunk to show it. Instead, she wipes her eyes and uncovers herself from the mountain of blankets. 

“Have a good show?” she asks as she stretches, even though the movement of blood sends a blinding pulse behind her eyes. She winces and stands.

“No, I was remarkably bored. You talk in your sleep.”

She knows. She doesn't ask what he heard.

“And how long did you sniff around before you settled on sitting there and staring at me?”

He steeples his fingers in quiet contemplation. “A while.”

Anora rolls her eyes, scoffs. She begins to fold blankets. “And? Did you find what you were looking for?”

Her back is to him. She hears him rise from the seat but doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of turning around, so she focuses intently on the task at hand.

“Ad honorem meum. To the one who matches her namesake-”

Towards the middle of the Latin phrase she knows what he's quoting. Anora spins around and snatches the textbook from him, forgetting the blankets entirely.

“Give me that! It's mine.”

The detective surveys her. 

“Dust that's settled into the fabric of the cover insinuates that your beloved book has been sitting neglected for some time. You left it here. Or, you leave it here.”

At his words, Anora is torn between clutching the book tighter as though to protect it, or casting it into what remains of the fire just to prove him wrong. Ultimately, she places it back on the table where she found it, right onto its perfect shape in the dust.

“If I have it at home…oh, it doesn't matter, does it? Not when I've come back here.”

“Do you do this often?”

“Not recently. Consider it a relapse.”

Detective Holmes sinks his hands into his pockets and clears his throat.

“Yes, I suppose that's partially my doing.” She glares at him. “Or entirely my doing. Rest assured that after you left I received a stern talking to from Mrs. Watson who assured me that if I didn't apologize, she would name the baby Mycroft.”

And though she didn't let it show, the image of Mary Watson threatening the great Sherlock Holmes amused Anora.

“So?”

He sighs.

“I apologize for my bombardment of you, but I didn't think that you'd speak with us willingly.”

“Not you, no.”

“Again, I understand John's appeal, but apart from the obvious, how have I offended you?”

Anora's fingers find her locket.

“I asked one thing of you that night. Do you remember?”

His face hardly changes and Anora is certain he remembers. She hopes it haunts him forever.

“‘Don't let him get away.’”

“And yet.”

“As if anyone could have anticipated both of us plummeting down the falls and surviving the impact of the water.”

“You always think of every answer, don't you? Then what do you need me for?”

“I couldn't outthink him”

“Seems to me you did well enough.”

“And yet…”

He trails off. Anora chews on her lip.

“If you could find Sebastian Moran, it won't take you long to find James.”

Holmes certainly catches how casually she says the Professor's first name but it's too late to cover for it.

“You seem to think that if you never say it aloud, if no one else does, that it won't be true. If I've learned anything, and I'd like to think I have-”

“I'm sure you would-”

“It's that denial does not turn the heart the way it does the mind. I think it would be best if you accepted what we both know to be true.”

He's stepped closer, trying to penetrate her defenses without risking himself in the process. Anora hugs her arms, if only to provide herself one more layer of protection. 

“You let me worry about myself and what I want.”

“How convincing can you be? That you want to find him? That your reunion wouldn't end in death?”

Anora almost laughs.

“Too convincing, I'm sure.”

She looks around the house and finally acknowledges that she'll likely never see James here again, and that he'll likely never be able to return to his home. The thought of such a grand and beautiful house sitting abandoned makes her heart ache. It deserves better.

Perhaps they all do.

“You'll never truly be satisfied until you know how this ends, and you'll never know the ending unless you're a part of it.”

“I'm a lunatic,” Anora mutters to herself. She smiles at the thought.

“You're a student. You're curious. And you deserve it.”

The word ‘deserve’ strikes her. Good or bad, she deserves to see this through. She must.

Slowly, as if she has to force the movement, she nods.

“Alright.”

[wrathful-banette]

Qui tum denique, habent salem ac leporem / Si sunt molloculi ac parum pudici.

Magomarch day 8! Beta Design

This has got to be one of my favorite beta designs for Magolor, they just have so much personality! They're also implied to be a woman. So uh. Poggers. You can find the full image for the design on magolor's fandom wiki. (I'm a bit too lazy to grab it right now.)

P.S: the Latin text is pulled from Hack Writer by Ferry, but if I'm not mistaken, it was written away before that song.

[volumina-vetustiora]

Aegrum Somnium Maiae Chartariae Fever Dream by mxmtoon

ludendus nobis vitae ludus est noli semper animum abdere quod amor quoque caecus saltus est quem insilio

audii vocem, iter feci quorsum caderem nescivi quo me ducet? et per gradum et per scalam fors adveniam, an nunquam sed fortasse

volo plus videre quam inquietum mane vivo vix, sed quare? au, au!

respice discedens denique dies, vestimenta in nive quousque ambulabo donec domu caream? hoc nesciam, sed utinam…

volo plus videre quam inquietum mane vivo vix, sed quare? au, au! fruere otiose tempore fluente vivis vix, sed quare? au, au!

audii vocem, iter feci quorsum caderem nescivi quo me ducet? et per gradum et per scalam fors adveniam, an nunquam sed fortasse

volo plus videre quam inquietum mane vivo vix, sed quare? au, au! fruere otiose tempore fluente vivis vix, sed quare? au, au!

[mercuriicultores]

Pedro Calderón de la Barca – La vida es sueño, Jornada II, 1163

Es verdad, pues: reprimamos esta fiera condición, esta furia, esta ambición, por si alguna vez soñamos. Y sí haremos, pues estamos en mundo tan singular, que el vivir sólo es soñar; y la experiencia me enseña, que el hombre que vive, sueña lo que es, hasta despertar.

Sueña el rey que es rey, y vive con este engaño mandando, disponiendo y gobernando; y este aplauso, que recibe prestado, en el viento escribe y en cenizas le convierte la muerte (¡desdicha fuerte!): ¡que hay quien intente reinar viendo que ha de despertar en el sueño de la muerte!

Sueña el rico en su riqueza, que más cuidados le ofrece; sueña el pobre que padece su miseria y su pobreza; sueña el que a medrar empieza, sueña el que afana y pretende, sueña el que agravia y ofende, y en el mundo, en conclusión, todos sueñan lo que son, aunque ninguno lo entiende.

Yo sueño que estoy aquí, destas prisiones cargado; y soñé que en otro estado más lisonjero me vi. ¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí. ¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión, una sombra, una ficción, y el mayor bien es pequeño; que toda la vida es sueño, y los sueños, sueños son.

Petrus Calderonius de la Barca – Vita somnium est, II, 1163

Verum est ergo… reprimamus hanc ferinam condicionem, hanc furiam, hanc ambitionem, ne sit, ut simus in somnio. Nam sumus in mundo adeo singulari, ut vivere tantum somnium sit; et experientia ostendit mihi, quod homo vivens, dum vivit, somniat talem, qualis sit, se usque ad surrectionem.

Somniat Rex se Regem, et sic vivit in hac fallacia: imperans, regens et iubens; et hunc plausum, quem acceperat praestitum, in ventos et in cineres convertit mors (acris miseria!): ah, quis conaretur imperare, sciens se debere surgere postea in somnio mortis?!

Somniat dives in suis divitiis, de quibus magnopere curat; somniat pauper se pati angustias, miserias et paupertatem; somniat, qui meliorari incipit, somniat, qui consecrat et molitur, somniat, qui damnat et offendit, et in mundo denique omnes somniant, quod ipsi sunt, etsi nemo id intelligit.

Ego somnio me exstare hic, ex istis carceribus sublatum; et somniavi me in alio statu leviore, molliore, fuisse. Quid est vita? Phrenesis. Quid est vita? Illusio, umbra, fictio, et summum bonum parvum; nam tota vita somnium est; et somnia, somnia sunt.

[latinare]

corpus meum flebile: ubi dormit???

ego: amice iam orti sumus!! tempus est nobis oriendo et faciendo et Negotio

corpus lacrimans: sed???? ubi dormit?????

.

ego: bene. denique nunc est dormit

corpus: non. fallit.

my body, tearfully: when sleep???

me: my dude we just woke up!! It’s time for wakefulness and doing things and Productivity

my body, weeping: but???? when sleep?????

[famiglia-lealta]

Denique superbia est quae nos facit

⚔ In the end, it is Pride that makes us. ⚔

[konmatfl]

“When are the Gurkish coming?” His grin faded, and he gave a long sigh. “I see that you have not learned patience.” “I learnt it, then ran out of it. When are they coming?”

Est modus in rebus, sunt certi denique fines. - Ferro, probably

[douzo-odaijini]

行動指針、そして墓碑銘に彫ってほしい言葉

“Postulata autem nostra quae afferimus talis sunt. De nobis ipsis silemus: de re autem quae agitur petimus, ut homines eam non opinionem sed opus esse cogitent; ac pro certo habeant, non sectae nos alicujus aut placiti, sed utilitatis et amplitudinis humanae fundamenta moliri. Deinde ut suis commodis aequi, exutis opinionum zelis et praejudiciis, in commune consulant; ac ab erroribus viarum atque impedimentis, nostris praesidiis et auxiliis, liberati et muniti, laborum qui restant et ipsi in partem veniant. Praeterea, ut bene sperent; neque Instaurationem nostram, ut quiddam infinitum et ultra mortale, fingant et animo concipiant; quum revera sit infiniti erroris finis et terminus legitimus; mortalitatis autem et humanitatis non sit immemor; quum rem non intra unius aetatis curriculum omnino perfici posse confidat, sed successioni destinet; denique scientias, non per arrogantiam in humani ingenii cellulis, sed submisse in mundo majore quaerat. Vasta vero ut plurimum solent esse, quae inania: solida contrahuntur maxime, et in parvo sita sunt. Postremo etiam petendum videtur (ne forte quis rei ipsius periculo nobis iniquus esse velit) ut videant homines, quatenus ex eo quod nobis asserere necesse sit (si modo nobis ipsi constare velimus) de his nostris opinandi aut sententiam ferendi sibi jus permissum putent: quum nos omnem istam rationem humanam praematuram, anticipantem, et a rebus temere et citius quam oportuit abstractam, (quatenus ad inquisitionem naturae) ut rem variam et perturbatam et male extructam rejiciamus. Neque postulandum est ut ejus judicio stetur, quae ipsa in judicium vocatur”.

Bacon, Francis. 1620. Novum Organum.

[a-book-of-creatures]

I reblogged this a long time ago but apparently it got lost in the shuffle. The source is Jacques Houllier's De Morbis Internis (1577).

Et cuidam Italo ex frequenti odoratu basilicae herbae natus scorpio in cerebro, vehementes dolores & longos, mortem denique attulit. And a certain Italian who smelled basil frequently had a scorpion born in his brain, which brought on severe and long pains, and finally death.

This is a single anecdote reported by one person, it's very unlikely that brain scorpions were ever a widespread belief.

Why does basil smell so fucking amazing

[tagitables]

Est modus in rebus, sunt certi denique fines

Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus), Satires

There is a measure in things; there are certain limits.

[doomanddead]

February Picks

We’ve reached the end of February, darklings, and with the passing of another birthday I’m another step closer to the grave. Here’s what cropped up this month (besides that one snow-white pube…)

— FEBRUARY FUNERAL DOOM —

The album that whispered sweet nothings in my ear this month was Pleroma Mortem Est by Monovoth. I’ve covered this Argentinian drone doom project before, but Monovoth continues to set the bar higher with every release. If you’re looking for a soundtrack to our collective plod toward nothingness, then this is it. 

Clamor Resonat is particularly introspective, with a distant howl drawing ever nearer. This funerary slog has the slowest of builds, but manages to avoid predictability at every turn. When the next note finally drops it’s low and slow enough to satisfy the most discerning doomheads.

Despite its brevity, Somnia stands out with its shimmering guitar tone in the sparse atmosphere. It’s unquestionably one of the most beautiful doom arrangements I’ve heard in a while. 

If Somnia is all lunar radiance, then Denique Mors is the dark side of the moon. This one’s an agonized dirge with an experimental spirit. This gritty offering toys with texture and intensity. Brutal guest vocals by Lindsay O’ Connor help usher us through the gates of hell. 

If you like Dylan Carlson’s sound, but wish it was more ponderous and grim, then this shit's for you. These tracks struggle with their own mortality in a sundowning world. Join the procession, and grab this on Bandcamp before your own lights go out.

— A SWEET DRONE RELEASE —

If dark ambient soundscapes are your thing, then you’ll wave your antennae with glee to know that drone master insectarium just dropped the necrophage emerges divine. Wriggle right into this sonic cocoon as we journey through the lowest moments in life and out the other side. Owlripper Recordings is always generous with their music, so scuttle down to the bottom of the Bandcamp page to find the link for a free download code. 

— SAVORY SINGLES —

Long Beach doom cats O ZORN! have been serving up post-hardcore goodness lately with a string of singles. My favorite has got to be Slow Mood. Like the monster that lives in your bedroom, this brooding earworm skulks in the corner, but its hulking frame is impossible to ignore. I swear you’re going to be humming this shit all day.

February also brought us Bow Down by Detroit’s Temple Of The Fuzz Witch. It’s some properly fucking fuzzed-out blackened doom. It’s thick as tar and absolutely vicious. I want to climb into a vat of this and bathe in it until I turn into the creature from the black metal lagoon. 

Until next time, doom fans.

[mercuriicultores]

Angelus Politianus – Angelus Politianus Paulo Cortesio suo s. d.

Mihi certe quicumque tantum componunt ex imitatione, similes esse vel psittaco vel picae videntur, proferentibus quae nec intelligunt. Carent enim quae scribunt isti viribus et vita; carent actu, carent affectu, carent indole, iacent, dormiunt, stertunt. Nihil ibi verum, nihil solidum, nihil efficax. «Non exprimis», inquit aliquis, «Ciceronem». Quid tum? non enim sum Cicero; me tamen, ut opinor, exprimo.

[…] Sed ut ad te redeam, Paule, quem penitus amo, cui multum debeo, cuius ingenio plurimum tribuo, quaeso, ne superstitione ista te alliges, ut nihil delectet quod tuum plane sit et ut oculos a Cicerone nunquam deicias. Sed cum Ciceronem, cum bonos alios multum diuque legeris, contriveris, edidiceris, concoxeris et rerum multarum cognitione pectus impleveris, ac iam componere aliquid ipse parabis, turn demum velim quod dicitur sine cortice nates, atque ipse tibi sis aliquando in consilio, sollicitudinemque illam morosam nimis et anxiam deponas effingendi tantummodo Ciceronem tuasque denique vires universas pericliteris. Nam qui tantum ridicula ista quae vocatis liniamenta contemplantur attoniti, nec ilia ipsa, mihi crede satis repraesentant, et impetum quodammodo retardant ingenii sui, currentique velut obstant et, ut utar plautino verbo, remoram faciunt. Sed ut bene currere non potest qui pedem ponere studet in alienis tantum vestigiis, ita nec bene scribere qui tamquam de praescripto non audet egredi. Postremo scias infelicis esse ingenii nihil a se promere, semper imitari.

[HIS] Aquellos que se dedican exclusivamente a la imitación parecen similares a un loro o a una urraca, pues pronuncian cosas que no comprenden. Carecen de la fuerza y la vitalidad necesarias; carecen de acción, carecen de emoción, carecen de personalidad; yacen, duermen, roncan. No hay en ellos nada verdadero, nada sólido, nada eficaz. «No logras expresar a Cicerón», dice alguien. ¿Y qué? No soy Cicerón; pero al menos me expresaré. […] Pero para volver a ti, Pablo, a quien amo profundamente, a quien debo mucho, a quien atribuyo un gran talento, te ruego que no te adhieras a esa superstición, para que nada te deleite que no sea exclusivamente tuyo y para que no seas como aquellos que nunca apartan los ojos de Cicerón. Sino que, cuando hayas leído mucho tiempo a Cicerón y a otros buenos autores, cuando los hayas desglosado, estudiado, asimilado y hayas llenado tu mente con el conocimiento de muchas cosas, y te prepares para componer algo por ti mismo, entonces desearía que fueras tú mismo el que, con esfuerzo, habla, que seas tú mismo alguna vez en tus decisiones, que te deshagas de esa preocupación excesiva y ansiosa por simplemente imitar a Cicerón y no pongas en peligro todas tus propias habilidades. Porque aquellos que contemplan con asombro esas ridiculeces que llaman 'rasgos' (liniamenta), créeme, no las representan adecuadamente, de alguna manera retrasan el ímpetu de su propio ingenio, parecen, usando una expresión de Plauto, obstruir a alguien que está corriendo y hacen que se detenga. Pero así como aquel que se esfuerza por poner el pie únicamente en las huellas de otros no puede correr bien, tampoco puede escribir bien aquel que no se atreve a salir de los límites preestablecidos. En conclusión, debes saber que es desafortunado no producir nada propio, y siempre imitar.