Message from @Arturia Durand
Discord ID: 602113735527759872
A place of intellectuals.
Welcome to athens
Welcome to retard central*
I blame PureEvilPie#6294 for this
Allah curse his name
Ricardepe
<:smugon:512048583806025739>
It is in Italy that we are issuing this manifesto of ruinous and incendiary violence, by which we today are founding Futurism, because we want to deliver Italy from its gangrene of professors, archaeologists, tourist guides and antiquaries. Italy has been too long the great second-hand market. We want to get rid of the
innumerable museums which cover it with innumerable cemeteries.
Museums, cemeteries! Truly identical in their sinister juxtaposition of bodies that do not know each other. Public dormitories where you sleep side by side for ever with beings you hate or do not know. Reciprocal ferocity of the painters and sculptors who murder each other in the same museum with blows of line and color. To make a visit once a year, as one goes to see the graves of our dead once a year, that we could allow! We can even imagine placing flowers once a year at the feet of the Gioconda! But to take our sadness, our fragile courage and our anxiety to the museum every day, that we cannot admit! Do you want to poison yourselves? Do you want to rot? What can you find in an old picture except the painful contortions of the artist trying to break uncrossable barriers which obstruct the full expression of his dream? To admire an old picture is to pour our sensibility into a funeral urn instead of casting it forward with violent spurts of creation and action. Do you want to waste the best part of your strength in a useless admiration of the past, from which you will emerge exhausted, diminished, trampled on?
Indeed daily visits to museums, libraries and academies (those cemeteries of wasted effort, calvaries of crucified dreams, registers of false starts!) is for artists what prolonged supervision by the parents is for intelligent young men, drunk with their own talent and ambition.
For the dying, for invalids and for prisoners it may be all right. It is, perhaps, some sort of balm for their wounds, the admirable past, at a moment when the future is denied them. But we will have none of it, we, the young, strong and living Futurists! Let the good incendiaries with charred fingers come! Here they are! Heap up the fire to the shelves of the libraries! Divert the canals to flood the cellars of the museums! Let the glorious canvases swim ashore! Take the picks and hammers! Undermine the foundation of venerable towns!
The oldest among us are not yet thirty years old: we have therefore at least ten years to accomplish our task. When we are forty let younger and stronger men than we throw us in the waste paper basket like useless manuscripts! They will come against us from afar, leaping on the light cadence of their first poems, clutching the air with their predatory fingers and sniffing at the gates of the academies the good scent of our decaying spirits, already promised to the catacombs of the libraries. But we shall not be there. They will find us at last one winter's night in the depths of the country in a sad hangar echoing with the notes of the monotonous rain, crouched near our trembling aeroplanes, warming our hands at the wretched fire which our books of today will make when they flame gaily beneath the glittering flight of their
pictures.
They will crowd around us, panting with anguish and disappointment, and exasperated by our proud indefatigable courage, will hurl themselves forward to kill us, with all the more hatred as their hearts will be drunk with love and admiration for us. And strong healthy Injustice will shine radiantly from their eyes. For art can only be violence, cruelty, injustice.
The oldest among us are not yet thirty, and yet we have already wasted treasures, treasures of strength, love, courage and keen will, hastily, deliriously, without thinking, with all our might, till we are out of breath.
Look at us! We are not out of breath, our hearts are not in the least tired. For they are nourished by fire, hatred and speed! Does this surprise you? it is because you do not even remember being alive! Standing on the world's summit, we launch once more our challenge to the stars!
Greeting fellow UK citizen 👳🏿
Posted byu/Zekeroonie
2 years ago
Sonic fanfic i found
Sonic opened the fridge, and pulled out the bag of ham, some cheese, and tossed it on the nearby counter, then shut the door. He grabbed the loaf of bread, which was already sitting on the counter, and opened it. In less than a minute he had two ham and cheese sandwiches, and he smirked, and picked them up, taking a bit out of the sandwich in his right hand. He then though of knuckles, and he grinned, thinking of the echidna's muscular figure, which kind of turned Sonic on. He then sighed, knowing he couldn't let Knuckles know he was gay. He would probably start sleeping on the couch or something, which would make it worse. Sonic then began walking back to the room, figuring Knuckles would be agitated already. But when he walked in to the room, he was surprised to see Knuckles, the sheet down, and an erection in his underwear. Knuckles didn't notice at first however, that Sonic was at the door. "Knuckles?" Sonic asked. Knuckle's eyes widened, and he looked at the azure hedgehog, and quickly threw the blanket over, him, a cherry red blush reaching his cheeks. Maybe I wont have to hide my secret after all. Sonic thought, small fantasies speeding through his head. "S-Sonic! How long were you there?" Knuckles asked, in probably the most embarrassing tone Sonic had ever heard. The smirk reached Sonic's lips again, and he walked over, placing the sandwiches on the nightstand, sitting next to the Crimson echidna.