“Then does Time not kill the gods?”
“No. But for three or four thousand years a god is worshipped and for three or four he sleeps. Only Time is wakeful always.”
“But they that teach us of new gods, are they not new?”
“They hear the old ones stirring in their sleep being about to wake, because the dawn is breaking and the priests crow. These are the happy prophets: unhappy are they that hear some old god speak while he sleeps still being deep in slumber, and prophesy and prophesy and no dawn comes, they are those that men stone saying, ‘Prophesy where this stone shall hit you, and this.’”
“Then shall Time never slay the gods.”
“They shall die by the bedside of the last man.”
– A Shop in Go-By Street, Lord Dunsany
for fear they will wake the people of the city. For when the people of this city wake the gods will die. And when the gods die men may dream no more.
– Idle Days on the Yann, Lord Dunsany
First, everything in this fallen created order “answers to” something unfallen […] In other words, the dragon is the archtypical emblem of sly, crafty, rebellion – and this goes back to the Garden. Satan is that ancient dragon. If we read our Bibles rightly, we will pay attention to the symbols. Honor the symbols, people.
But of course Satan was a fallen something, and that something was, before he fell, an unfallen version of that same thing. My personal view is that he was one of the seraphim, which means that the seraphim are glorious, unfallen dragons, privileged to cry holy, holy, holy in the presence of God.
But in this world, the one we live in, dragons still mean what they mean. That meaning was assigned to us. Shifting the meaning of everything around in this metamorphing way seems to me to be not so much a testimony to our literary prowess as to the continued craftiness of the serpent.
– Doug Wilson
(food for my thought and a warning as well.)
She of the whirlwind; the stormy one; storm swift.
cool air rushes in to replace it.
That’s the way of the world. Joy and youth and love flow ever upward. What they leave behind is the cold consolation of the wind.
– A Memory of Wind (2009),
immobile as if he was hardened into stone. Deep concentration has outlined the veins on his forehead. In his thick beard the pearls of water gleam in the afternoon light. The sounds of the sea fill his senses: the waves foaming not far from his feet; seagulls shrieking, gliding on the wind; the heath wheezing in golden fields behind him. But there is another sound, harder to discern, that keeps his attention fixed as if fastened to the mast of a ship. The unearthly notes of a melody alien to human ears, bringing the fascination of a desire so strong, it is bound to bring damnation. His muscles, tensed, reveal how much strength it requires to resist the call. He guards his mind and listens, to memorize the inflections, decipher the tones and plant them into human words. He sees female beauty among the waves, he sees wisdom that would satisfy his hunger, he glimpses flowers of joy reminiscent of those on the Elysian Fields. It could be his alone: no one ever saw what he sees. His eyes are hollow.
– “Of Sirens and Sea Nymphs”, attributed to Imola Unger?