#infandum

[skieuraufonddunpuits]

Nom-de-Non s'engendra lui-même, et il engendra Tout-et-Rien.

Tout-et-Rien engendra Tout-ou-Rien,

qui engendra Tout, qui engendra Infandum,

qui engendra Ineffable et Innommable, les deux frères ennemis.

/ René Daumal

[lesondupapillon]

Nom-de-Non s'engendra lui-même, et il engendra Tout-et-Rien.

Tout-et-Rien engendra Tout-ou-Rien,

qui engendra Tout, qui engendra Infandum,

qui engendra Ineffable et Innommable, les deux frères ennemis.

/ René Daumal

[tower-of-hana]

Translation of the Vatican Latin Blog's post on Israel-Palestine

Inhuman Massacre of Journalists

In the war, which Israelies brought against Gaza around October journalists, were being killed.

Three more months have passed, as a result of which the Palestinian group who are usually called Hamas, after firing incendiary (the word he uses here appears to be an italian/romance word that means vomiting fire) missiles into Israel and attacking many times inside its borders (lit: making many incursions into its borders), killed 1,200 men and captured 247 civilians and kept the same hostages. Everyone knew the same day that the horrible facts came out that Benjamin Netanyahu, prime minister of Israel, announced a war with Hamas and their troops began to bring weapons into Gaza by land and sea in order to avenge a monstrous and cruel terror attack. And until now all the time, Israeli soldiers, who destroy this city and region and have not stopped killing thousands and thousands of innocent inhabitants, have also killed as many as 79 journalists, the Commision to Protect Journalists has alleged. Because this is a horrible and detestable crime.

Immanis Diurnariorum Strages

In bello, quod Israelitae contra Gazam intulerunt, circiter octoginta ephemeridum scriptores hodie usque interfecti sunt

Tres amplius menses elapsi sunt, ex quo Palaestinorum grex, qui vulgo Hamas appellatur, postquam ignivoma missilia in Israelitas coniecit multasque incursiones in eorum fines fecit, homines mille ac ducentos occidit atque cives ducentos quadraginta septem cepit eosdemque pro obsidibus retinuit. Omnes sciunt eodem die, quo luctuosa facta evenerunt, Beniaminum Netanyahu, primarium Israelis administrum, ut tam infandum tamque crudelem impetum tromocraticum ulcisceretur, Hamasianis bellum indixisse atque copias suas arma terra marique Gazae inferre coepisse. Et ad hoc usque tempus Israelitarum milites, qui urbem illam regionemque vastare ac milia et milia incolarum innocentium necare non cessant, saltem undeoctoginta ephemeridum scriptores, ut Commissio diurnariis tutandis, Anglico sermone Committee to Protect Journalists, asseverat, quoque interfecerunt. Quod horribile est scelus et abominandum.

[rin-rin-kururin]

actually for judai/hao thing i have to thank Amorem Infandum — absolutely stunning work with fantasy setting + mirrorshipping actually works!! woah

I'll go to selfcest hell for judai/hao, venti/nameless bard and siffrin/loop

[pamphletstoinspire]

Infandum - Definitions: Abominable, Monstrous, Unspeakable, Unutterable.

Image is a detail from “The Procession of the Trojan Horse in Troy” by Domenico Tiepolo (1773)

In 1789 George Washington prayed in St. Paul’s Church, on what we now call lower Broadway, on the day of his inauguration as the first president of the United States. The churchyard was already old. On September 11, 2001, several new corpses were lying on the old graves. Then quickly a temporary morgue was set up in a nearby hotel. All that the founding fathers stood for was contradicted in a thunderous attack on the heart of the city that calls itself the capital of the world.

Grown children had grown accustomed to taking prosperity for granted and had often scorned the virtues that created the prosperity. The frenzied celebrations of the third millennium were largely conspicuous for their cheerful banality. There were fireworks but no great blazing works of art. A generation after men went to the moon, celebrants did circles on Ferris wheels; in London a dome was built with no particular purpose in mind and was hastily filled with just about everything except an altar to God. The general euphoria was tinged with melancholy, almost like that of Alexander with no more worlds to conquer. What to do with endless peace? Some said that history had ended. Then came an airplane flying so low in a city that usually does not notice noise of any kind, that I had to take notice.

Crowds screamed and ran when the first tower fell; when the second came down, many just sat stupefied on the ground and groaned. Those buildings were not widely loved by New Yorkers. In the 1960s when Penn Station was dismantled, they were built with the rebarbative euphoria of the “International School,” whose architects and sycophantic political backers defied everything that had gone before. An architect famously complained that the towers “tilted” the Manhattan skyline.

They stood, nonetheless, tall evangels of great enterprise, and at night when their cold steel was a shadow and their lights flooded the harbor, they could stun sullen eyes. Those who saw them collapse felt a collapse in themselves. About 25 percent of the onlookers are said to have had post-traumatic stress, a syndrome that can be traced back to the silence of our first ancestors as they left Eden in shock. Helpless reporters, kept at a distance, heard from eyewitnesses responses like that of Aeneas when Dido asked him to recount the loss of his ships and sailors: “Infandum, regina, iubes renovare dolorem” (Oh queen, you bid me retell a tale that should not be uttered).

The horrific shock treatment of September 11 has rattled three modern assumptions. The first was the politicized dismissal of natural law. George Washington in his pew at St.Paul’s believed in the inalienable right to life. The primacy of natural law was vindicated when people at the World Trade Center struggled to rescue one another, often sacrificing their lives to do so. A man leaving his apartment to go to work in one of the towers heard his wife crying that she was going into labor. Instead of going to his office, he took her to the hospital and watched his baby enter the world as his building collapsed. The baby’s first act was to save his father. In a world of carnage in Bethlehem, men once heard the cry of the baby who saves all those who call upon Him, through all ages, even as late as September 11, 2001. The thousands of lives crushed on that day will make it harder to say that life doesn’t count.

Secondly, the holy priesthood has been a victim of modern assault. God’s gift of priestly intercession had recently become an object of incomprehension and mockery. Books were written on how the priesthood might be reformed out of existence. A saint once said that a priest is a man who would die to be one. On September 11, a chaplain of the New York City Fire Department, Rev. Mychal Judge, was crushed by debris while giving the last rites to a dying fireman. Members of his company carried Father Judge to New York’s oldest Catholic church a few blocks away and laid him on the marble pavement in front of the altar. Each knelt at the altar rail before going back to the flames. I stayed a while and saw the blood flow down the altar steps. Above the altar was a painting of Christ bleeding on the cross—the gift of a Spanish king and old enough for St. Elizabeth Ann Seton to have prayed before it. More than local Catholic history was encompassed in that scene. For those who had forgotten, the Eucharist is a sacrifice of blood, and it is the priest who offers the sacrifice. September 11 gave an indulgent world, and even delicate catechists, an icon of the priesthood.

The fall of the towers quaked modern man’s third error: his contempt for objective truth. The whole world said that what happened on September 11 was hideously wrong, and suddenly we realized how rarely in recent times we have heard things that are hideous and wrong called hideous and wrong. So many firemen wanted to confess before entering the chaos that we priests gave general absolution. They would not have wanted to confess if they didn’t know the portent of the moment; nor would they have made the sign of the cross if they thought existence was a jumbled quilt of inconsequential opinions. A rescue worker next to me boasted that his lucky penny and his little crucifix had saved him when he was tossed ten feet in the air by the reverberations of falling steel. He got up, brushed himself off, and went back into the bedlam. If he was superstitious, he was only half so. The Holy Father has often been patronized by savants who thought that his description of a “culture of death” was extravagantly romantic pessimism. They have not spoken like that since September 11.

A crowd of people blinded by smoke were panicking in a Wall Street subway exit. One man calmly led them to safety. He was blind, and he and his seeing-eye dog knew every corner of that station. One might say—and if one were rational, one would have to say—that each generation, culturally blinded in ways peculiar to its age, is offered a hand to safety by people whose holiness is often considered a handicap. At the World Trade Center, rescued men and women were heard to use words like “guardian angel” and “savior.” Days later, confession lines were long and congregations stood in the streets outside packed churches. One waits to see if grace will build upon grace.

Perhaps it would be naive to hope that a new Christian consciousness suddenly and smoothly will arise. On a train a few days after the attack, I sat next to a teenager wearing the ritual garb of his atomistic tribe, backwards baseball cap and such. When I recounted how rescuers had kept rushing into 240,000 tons of collapsing ironwork without any apparent thought for themselves, he replied in a voice coached by the sentinels of self-absorption: “They must be sick.” It will take more than one September day to humanize a generation.

We were attacked on what was to have been the day of the primary elections for the city’s mayoral office. One police-man, speaking through a gas mask, gasped how all this chaos made all those candidates and all their “issues” seem so small. (That is only the gist of what he said; he used sturdy monosyllabic Tudor metaphors appropriate to the passion of the moment.) I do not see that problem being quickly cured. William Clinton, still unaccustomed to his reduced place in life, arrived on the scene the day before the president. The spectacle of his pumping up oceans of empathy in front of cameras carried bad taste to a length he had not managed even in the White House. Sobered by the day’s events, the media virtually ignored him. As a chronicler said of Napoleon, “He embarrassed God.” Within days, an organist from another state faxed offers of special fees to parishes whose organists could not manage the number of funerals. A company from Maine advertised hand-held devices that send sonic vibrations to soothe grief.

Such inanities of the human race can only be understood as little burps from Beelzebub’s inferior minions. Beelzebub did not win the day against courage. In a World War II speech, Churchill paraphrased St. Thomas Aquinas in describing courage as the foundational quality for all the virtues. The politicians of his day who wanted compromise with evil do not share a place on his plinth, and nations that were neutral then do not boast of it now. When asked about evacuating Elizabeth and Margaret Rose during the blitz, Queen Elizabeth famously said that the princesses “will not leave unless I leave, and I will not leave unless the King leaves, and the King will not leave.” On September 11, through the roaring and crashing and screaming, it may be that many began to hear Christ the King as if for the first time: “I am with you always until the end of the world.”

Written by: Fr. George W. Rutler

[kylebrowning]

Virtual Germination

Running round atmospheres that fail to see advances

for giving the place an impossible space

and are born again with power of virtual germination

remember the absurd impossibility

for appraising thoughts of life

thinking in segments, crystalization

and each mode of the rest communicates in an instant

a metoric illusion that snuffs our architecture and concrete.

Imagine traveling free and phosphorescent

acceptable realities

but infant unknowns, luciditiy unspeakable

mute apes, report rapport, follow the halting

of a massed spirit, that is, for the most part

virtual.

[finita--la--commedia]

Yes, I know well that others before me have felt what I feel and express; that many others feel it to-day, although they keep silence about it. Why do I not keep silence about it too ? Well, for the very reason that most of those who feel it are silent about it; and yet, though they are silent, they obey in silence that inner voice. And I do not keep silence about it because it is for many the thing which must not be spoken, the abomination of abominations —infandum — and I believe that it is necessary now and again to speak the thing which must not be spoken. But if it leads to nothing ? Even if it should lead only to irritating the devotees of progress, those who believe that truth is consolation, it would lead to not a little. To irritating them and making them say : Poor fellow ! if he would only use his intelligence to better purpose ! . . . Someone perhaps will add that I do not know what I say, to which I shall reply that perhaps he may be right — and being right is such a little thing ! — but that I feel what I say and I know what I feel and that suffices me. And that it is better to be lacking in reason than to have too much of it.

Miguel de Unamuno (1864 -1936), from “In The Depth Of The Abyss” in “The Tragic Sense of Life”, translated from the Spanish by J.E. Crawford Flitch 

[fear-ofthedark-chiaraandrea]

Lumen oscura vicissim luna premit/ illum absens absentem auditque videtque.. infandum si fallere possiti amorem.

Virgilio, IV

[tail-feathers]

Courage, the foundation of all the virtues

On a train a few days after the 9/11 attack, I sat next to a teenager wearing the ritual garb of his atomistic tribe, backwards baseball cap and such. When I recounted how rescuers had kept rushing into 240,000 tons of collapsing ironwork without any apparent thought for themselves, he replied in a voice coached by the sentinels of self-absorption: “They must be sick.” It will take more than one September day to humanize a generation.

We were attacked on what was to have been the day of the primary elections for the city’s mayoral office. One police-man, speaking through a gas mask, gasped how all this chaos made all those candidates and all their “issues” seem so small. (That is only the gist of what he said; he used sturdy monosyllabic Tudor metaphors appropriate to the passion of the moment.) I do not see that problem being quickly cured. William Clinton, still unaccustomed to his reduced place in life, arrived on the scene the day before the president. The spectacle of his pumping up oceans of empathy in front of cameras carried bad taste to a length he had not managed even in the White House. Sobered by the day’s events, the media virtually ignored him. As a chronicler said of Napoleon, “He embarrassed God.” Within days, an organist from another state faxed offers of special fees to parishes whose organists could not manage the number of funerals. A company from Maine advertised hand-held devices that send sonic vibrations to soothe grief.

Such inanities of the human race can only be understood as little burps from Beelzebub’s inferior minions. Beelzebub did not win the day against courage. In a World War II speech, Churchill paraphrased St. Thomas Aquinas in describing courage as the foundational quality for all the virtues. The politicians of his day who wanted compromise with evil do not share a place on his plinth, and nations that were neutral then do not boast of it now.

Infandum: 18 Years On, George Rutler

[ygobigbang-archive]

Amorem Infandum

Artist: malikbishtar Full version here

Artist: ashethehedgehog Full version here Writer: ArtificialTVirus Status: Complete Rating: Explicit Characters: Haou Jaden/The Supreme King, Jaden Yuki/Judai Yuki, Yubel, mentions of others Ship(s): Haou/Jaden Content Warnings: Medieval AU, Angst, Slow burn, Porn, Blood, Mentions of death, Mentions of magic, No duels, Fluff, Action/Adventure, Violence, Drama Summary: In old times where magic is long gone and mentions of it are forbidden and unspoken of, a trace of it still lingers, last of it’s existence beig in the ancient, cursed king. Jaden, a miserable, but energetic villager, tired of unmerciful circumstances of life, finds himself venturing through not only the emperor’s castle walls, but also his internal barriers, slowly breaking them. Available on AO3

[ashethehedgehog]

Another @ygobigbang piece! This one for the fic Amorem Infandum~

[lesondupapillon]

Nom-de-Non s’engendra lui-même, et il engendra Tout-et-Rien.

Tout-et-Rien engendra Tout-ou-Rien,

qui engendra Tout, qui engendra  Infandum,

qui engendra Ineffable et Innommable, les deux frères ennemis.

Ineffable fut Prince du Monde, et Innommable de l’Immonde. Ils épousèrent respectivement Immense et Énorme, les Deux Orphelines

/ René Daumal

[pandaemoniumpancakes]

My Earthly by his Heav’nly overpowered, Which it had long stood under, strained to the highth In that celestial colloquy sublime, As with an object that excels the sense, Dazzled and spent, sunk down, and sought repair Of sleep, which instantly fell on me, called By nature as in aid, and closed mine eyes. Mine eyes he closed, but open left the cell Of fancy my internal sight, by which Abstract as in a trance methought I saw, Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape Still glorious before whom awake I stood, Who stooping opened my left side, and took From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm, And life-blood streaming fresh; wide was the wound, But suddenly with flesh filled up and healed: The rib he formed and fashioned with his hands; Under his forming hands a creature grew, Manlike, but different sex, so lovely fair, That what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained And in her looks, which from that time infused Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before, And into all things from her air inspired The spirit of love and amorous delight.

John Milton, Adam on the creation of Eve from Book VIII in Paradise Lost, lines 453-77.

   vox quoque per lucos vulgo exaudita silentis/ ingens, et simulacra modis pallentia miris/ visa sub obscurum noctis, pecudesque locutae,/ infandum! sistunt amnes terraeque dehiscunt,/ et maestum inlacrimat templis ebur aeraque sudant, “A voice boomed through the silent groves for all to hear, a deafening voice, and phantoms of unearthly pallor were seen in the falling darkness.“ (Vergil, from Book I in Georgics, trans. H. R. Fairclough, G. P. Goold, line 476); note the juxtaposition between ‘ingens’ and ‘silentis’ and the enjambent of ‘ingens’, cf. ‘mean’ enjambment. 

   seu mulier toto iactans e corpore amorem, “woman radiating love from her whole body” (Lucretius, from Book IV in De Rerum Natura, trans. W. H. D. Rouse, Martin F. Smith, line 1054) 

[lupitovi]

La reine observe son amant qui dort le nez dans son bras; il a joui; elle le contemple heureux. Son plaisir se poursuit en le voyant heureux. La reine écoute le prince respirer. Il s'éveille, il bouge sa cuisse immense. Elle a tant de joie en entendant sa voix qu’elle lui demande de raconter n'importe quoi, sa vie, ses exploits au combat, ses guerres, ses deuils, ses voyages. Énée commence par se taire. Soudain il dit tout bas : — Reine, je ne peux pas ! Trop de douleur borne nos corps. — Infandum regina jubes renovare dolorem ! Toujours un interdit s'impose à l'âme qui s'apprête à évoquer les jours qui furent. Toujours un infans précède le locutor. Il rappelle l'obstacle de la langue que, naissant, il ignore. Il y a un Infandum à la source du monde. Toujours indicible, ô ma reine, la douleur que m'ordonne de ressusciter. En amont de toute chose dite dans les sociétés du monde : Toujours infante, l'enfance. Seul le sexe ressuscite et se dresse, contemporain de chaque rêve, devant la nouvelle image qui s'impose, venue d'on ne sait où, loin en amont de notre espèce elle-même, dans la nuit interne.

Pascal Quignard - La nuit sexuelle

[mck-tt-n]

Tell me all your secrets

Location: Flourish and Blotts Date: 20.3.2018 Time: 3pm With: @august-infandum

It felt weird being back in this bookstore. Although Marlene enjoyed reading, she didn’t usually come to Flourish and Blotts to get her books but rather to some of the muggle book stores around London. She enjoyed reading muggle literature, getting to know their culture, their view on life from any perspective she could find. Thus, she hadn’t been back inside this particular book store since her Hogwarts days and it made her feel weirdly nostalgic.

Now, she was only in here for a very specific reason only. With everything that had happened recently, Marlene had realized she needed to educate herself more on wizarding history as well. To make her argument compelling, to really be able to found her beliefs on facts and their society’s history, she needed to know it, learn it. And so Marlene planned to get as many magical history books as she could find. At the moment, she was already carrying five under her right arm.

[bananawhale]

Triangulum, entangulum. Meteforis dominus ventium.

Ego paratus sum propter infandum…