The Crown & Spire

     of Anti-Intellectualism

I will trumpet my scolding critique to intellectualism!

The intellect of the human mind can indeed become infatuated with a serpentine arrogance, a bravado over its own accomplishments, even coming to take pride in its own basal existence... and the intellect can indeed fall in love with its own produce, never casting an eye to anything else but that which itself has created, feeling from it as if caught in the whiff of a lover's scent, as if possessed!  

And when this “intellectual” becomes enamored with his own abstract creations, one must ask oneself if this person is the absolute genius or merely an absolutely average asshole with a very spectacular overbelief in him- or herself.

This is a pathology of ideological or intellectual possession, wherein an ideology or an intellectual arrogance becomes a djinn or a hellish demon, infecting its host with all kinds of subhuman vices…

But the host of this pathology will only leer at you as you point it out. What other eyes will perceive as dumb-founded and uncredited arrogance has become the highest source of pride for the intellectually possessed.

In this, I echo Nietzsche’s great criticism of what he described as the ‘polluted stream’ of philosophy: a stream of words, just mere words. Deep and profound abstractions but existentially useless.

So, I conclude: intellectualism and most philosophy stems from the suffering of an unrootedness with the world. So they want to build their word-castles instead.

The intellectual may love his intellectual produce, but show me the intellectual loving his intellectual produce whilst living the myth of the hero! That is an intellectual i can admire and regard with dignity... but the person doing so is really no longer an intellectual but an existentialist! For this is what separates him from them.

Fuck this masturbatory intellectualism.  Fuck your fancy academies and fuck your theoretical philosophies too: they are heaps of words and not much else. Give me bread and a sword instead and I shall leave you in your castles of aethereal idealisms, with its beautiful windows of stained glass values.

how am i supposed to remember and honor a history

written with these feathers false with lie and deceit,

promulgated on these filthy pamphlets

and memorialized, revered as greatest prose,

defended, lauded, evangelized, celebrated?

   how am i to put on some pedestal

   this toilet-paper literature,

   and how i am i to hear these broken poetics

   of mute and wing-torn nightingales,

   how they twitter their warbles of unhope

    and their weak spring-song

   muttered and stuttered deep from the syrinx

   of their debased subterfuge?

their mimicry of greatness,

their faux emulations of might

through their pathetic and futile mobbing

against Truth itself comes off

as not dishonest exactly,

just existentially pathetic.

    the ornithomancy of fossilized birds

    reap bleak results.

    the prophecy speaks of draught,

    of death and of doom.

their prodigal hearts were wounded

from the lance of self-critique,

striking hard from the left side of histories!

   and they bled the black muck

   of their own reprobate wanton.

that is all it came to amount to:

a history of failure and destitution;

tirades of empty moralism, exhibitions

in shallowness,  contests in vice and vanity; glorifications of hedonistic inhibition…

coyness, resolve, constraint, mystery:

   all abandoned!―

        here is no strife!

        here is no sacrifice!

       “just we fuck, drink and laugh enough!”

in the end times, only the surface nuisances

of a planet burning at its core seemed interesting―nothing was real in those last days.

  fuck the hedonistic rapture you ushered in!

       for i am part of it

       and this part of me i hate…

Why does the human being even choose to continue in the midst of the threat of that? This endless misery! It is damn strange. Why do not people commit suicide more often? Late stage cancer victims – why do you continue living? Well, they do not answer;  they are barely people anymore. But they still live for some reason. Cancer is a face of God, but as usual, the face of the Divine appears ugly as to scare away all the false ones from committing to it! So, why did God create cancer? A million-dollar question, isn't it? Well, he didn't. God is the cancer itself. And God strikes with fury... we can see it quite clearly. You don't think so? Look – you will probably fail in most of the enterprises you commit to. You will ponder the great question of life and death, and if there is any morality in you, you will contemplate committing suicide or at least you will day dream about starting all over in some grandiose or spectacular manner. A man strives for victory; a beast strives for survival. Don't fucking forget that, you pathetic coward.