Well, to be fair I did have a couple of gadgets he probably didn't, like a teaspoon and an open mind.

Saturday, 19 February 2011

Abaddon: The Spirit of Destruction

This is a passage of a poem written by Sumner L. Fairfield in 1830. This is the poem from which I chose my name.

Abaddon or Apollyon, as the name imports, is supposed to be subordinate only to Satan, the adversary or tempter, who prepares by intrigue and seduction for the terrible triumphs of the Fiend of Ruin.

Where the wild darkness of the nether world Fell with its ghastliest grandeur, and vast clouds Trailed o'er the panting firmament, and hung Like sworded ministers of vengeance low Upon the dismal, thick, and deadly air, Abaddon stood companionless, and wrapt In wasting thought—a pyramid of mind On the dark desert of Despair ! Alone He stood, and his broad shadow quivered o'er The jagged and tumultuary clouds, Where living blackness struggled with the glare Thrown from the fierce volcano's lava breast, With even a deeper gloom ; for moral guilt Transcends the tempest's terror and the wreck Of warring elements, and brands its curse Upon the tortured spirit,from its throne Hurled down, and doom'd to agonize and burn. Abraded of his glory—shrouded now In the dire garments of the accursed race Whom Pride, the child of Intellect, o'erthrew, Buried in blackness with the muttering slaves Of his tremendous treasons—worst of all.
Too proud in desolation's loneliest hours
To hold communion with inferior minds,
Or, for a moment, bend the archangel's brow
To baser natures, pale  ABADDON leaned
Against a towering pillar charged with flame,
And spurned the fierce coiled serpents at his feet
With calm derision, for he felt within
Strong anguish past their power. His blasted brow
Worked in a terrible torture as the throng
Of horrible remembrances went by,
And all the majesty of mind unblest
Glared in the high and haughty scorn that burst
From his indrawn, remorseless, withering eyes.
Hurled from the pinnacle of glory—hurled From seraph throne, from love, from heaven and hope, The matchless mind, that consummated bliss When o'er the crystal fountain of his soul Hovered ethereal Purity and smiled, Now sealed the utter madness of his doom. Memory—the star-eyed child of Paradise ! Rushed o'er the burning realm of banished thought. Raining her scorpion arrows—Shame, Remorse, Vain Penitence and Hatred of himself Haunted the ruined altar of his soul, And offered up the sacrifice of death, That found no mercy and could never die. The glacier barriers of his banishment, Perdition's shattered rocks, whose awful peaks Gleamed in the holiest light of glory lost, Closed round his prison-house—his living tomb.

Quote of the Week XLII.

What you really fear is inside yourself. You fear your own power. You fear your anger, the drive to do great or terrible things. ~ Henri Ducard

Friday, 18 February 2011

Quote of the Week XLI.

If someone stands in the way of true justice, you simply walk up behind them and stab them in the heart. ~ Ra’s Al Ghul