Fumes and Bliss

The world, originally poetic, filled with the Spirit, suddenly turned into a bloodless desert, explained in detail by physicists and inhabited by Darwinian primates which, in the dark room of despair help themselves lavishly to the existentialist maxims of Sartre, Camus, and Aragon, gnaw at the stone-hard sea biscuits of Marx, nourishing in the womb of their imbecile dreams good-natured little demons like Lenin, Pol Pot, Kim Il Sung, and other maggots, in whose slippery embrace the fumes and bliss of absurdity reached the highest concentration. Dostoyevsky's hero says, "If there is no God one can do anything." Perhaps the only voice in the choir of the hubris to take on deities correctly diagnosing the disease at the turn of the century. And the pathogenesis largely depended on the reaction of the awkwardly cultured, nihilism-poisoned West. Stupefying rather than idealizing reality, it came very close to Soviet socialism, unaware of what lay behind its carefully decorated facade: mountains of dead bodies and oceans of falsehood. Prominent Europeans like Romain Rolland and Jean Paul Sartre, along with other pillars of Western civilization went on pilgrimages to Moscow. The 1920s, 1933, and 1937 fall out of the temporal category, as have all human disasters starting with original sin. Awaiting the Apocalypse, reading tea leaves trying to visualize heaven and hell, we are unaware of our having long since arrived at boiling Hades, with all the exits padlocked, but there is still a way out. To find it one must acquire faith in true elevated values, live by them, and entertain no doubts, for doubts reinforce the ground under Satan's feet and invigorate all those proliferating his ideas. At least this is what I think now and the clock reads 01.30 a.m. GMT.