/lit/ - Literature

>>16464901
more like Hellenic intuition
Took the church a thousand years to defeat Clement's and Origen's radical allegorising, but then came pros and now it's back in full schwing, and now the Catholic church is becoming doctrinally perennial.
But it doesn't work, the cognitive dissonance one needs to tolerate the biblical god (who's still just as cruel at time in the NT) or mental gymnastics to reinterpret this shit—is untenable.

>Everyone who is found will be thrust through,
>And everyone who is captured will fall by the sword.
>Their children also will be dashed to pieces before their eyes;
>Their houses will be plundered
>And their wives ravished.

>>16369087
like why the fuck you think Justinian felt the need to banish a "fringe organization with no influence" who then moved to the fucking court of the Sassanid emperor.

I enjoy reading about literature much, much more than reading literature.

>>16329145
DIONYSOS. Thebes taints me with bastardy. I am turned into an
alien, some foreign outgrowth of her habitual tyranny. My
followers daily pay forfeit for their faith. Thebes blasphemes
against me, makes a scapegoat of a god.
It is time to state my patrimony - even here in Thebes.
I am the gentle, jealous joy. Vengeful and kind. An essence that
wiii not exclude, nor be excluded. If you arc Man or Woman, I
am Dionysos. Accept.

A seed of Zeus was sown in Semele my mother earth, here on
this spot. It has burgeoned through the cragged rocks of far
Mghanistan, burst the banks of fertile Tmolus, sprung oases
through the red-eyed sands of Arabia; flowered in hill and
gorge of dark Ethiopia. It pounds in the blood and breasts of
my wild-haired women, long companions on this journey home
through Phrygia and the isles of Crete. It beats on the walls of
Thebes, bringing vengeance on all who deny my holy origin
and call my mother - whore.
He looks down on the clouds of smoke wrapped round his feet, rising
from the tomb. He scuffs the ground with a foot, scattering ashes and
sparks.

Something lives yet, there is smoke among the rubble. Live
embers. The phoenix rises and that is life - wings from cooling
cinders, tendrils from putrefaction, motion from what was
petrified ... There are green vines on the slag of ruin. Mine.
As on the mountain slopes, clustering and swelling. They flush,
they flood the long-parched throats of men and release their
joy. This sacrament of earth is life. Dionysos.

Bros, how do we save democracy?