A mother’s sole aim, from the reign of Titaness Rhea until now, is to protect her children from their father.
The artistic products manufactured during unaware and self-ignorant mental states, however fleeting those mentalities and intermittent the products produced therein, especially if such works are created by an artist who endeavors to actually think “for himself” and create for “its own sake”, are the supreme spiritual gifts that could ever be bequeathed to humanity, these the only suitable vehicles that have the power to convey truth in an “ultimate”, “absolute”, or “objective” way, freed, however impossibly, from the contaminating influences of will, bias, and opinion, never mind the distortions that immediately and in manifold ways occur the moment the artist realizes “what he is doing”, and by it, “who he is”; realizations which must – as far as such a one is able and to the degree that he might desire truth – be kept from him, despite how sensually gratifying these realizations irrepressibly prove, the likes of which few men can persistently suppress throughout their creative life, especially the more one grows in aesthetic power.
Such is why the first work of so many novelists, dramatists, thinkers, etcetera, tend to be the most profound, insightful, and far-reaching, if also immature, ill-formed, and poorly executed.
Cultures and civilizations, in the wilting senescence of their decline, will invariably sacrifice the worship of the solar deity – whose upward orientation was alone responsible for their greatness (had they any) – for the easy materialism of the mother goddess, the “mother earth” goddess who – as opposed to the celestial Father whose severity beckons his potential offspring higher, more lofty, remote, inaccessible, beautiful and thus better so that through their self-sacrifice they might be able to stand where He, in fact, is and be therefore begotten – demands nothing whatsoever from her children. Indeed, the only price that one must pay to be considered “hers” is that a man must surrender his will to distinction, honor, glory, self-overcoming, and self-transcendence. The Mother Goddess’ only desire is that her offspring “get along” and “play nicely” with each other, principally by denying their differences, suppressing their diversities, and slaughtering their sacral aspirations to better themselves that through unrelenting uniformity a kind of artificial “peace” might be established within her family, never mind how inescapably lifeless, apathetic, cynical, static, bored, spiritless and unequivocally ugly and thus forgettable such a culture might be insofar as it obediently persists under her “well-meaning” sway; the Mother Goddess who is not only the handicap of higher civilization but also the inert, and uninspiring compost out of which a new expression of life might emerge that will seek to overcome the worst and easiest of life and by so doing redeem and make it worthy to be lived again, redemption that the worship of the Mother Goddess can never accomplish save for the pitiful cries that subtly and nuanced ways yearn to to be overcome by the sun who alone enables the dynamism of life to unfold and persist.
Devil walks into bar. Orders drink. Asks Philosopher sitting next to him: “And what do you do?”