弱肉强食

Full Disclosure:

There will be no removal of National Socialism or of any other philosophical stance that makes people nervous from the ONA.

Each of these extreme philosophies and ideologies are there for a reason. Each of these are there to capture a particular frame of mind and to distinguish who is going to survive and who is going to look further and who is going to avoid the traps.

Fight as much as you want, but the ONA system is made the way it is for a particular reason. It is a blaze of fire bright in the dark forest, calling out to those who can see it and who want to partake in its warmth.

The mysticism that surrounds National socialism and some of its branches is part and parcel of that, because it is that Mystic national socialism that encapsulates much of what the ONA is about beyond the racism and beyond the fanaticism and beyond the world conquering.

It is precisely in the contradictions and in the lack of quantitative methods that the truth is found. It is not in how many miles you run and how many miles you can walk with a certain weight on your back. But it is about how much you can find and how much you can become yourself.

This is the tragic truth of the ONA that there is nothing at the center, the Minotaur at the center of the labyrinth that you have to kill is yourself, not your true “self”, but the false image you have of yourself, the false ego.

The true ego is what others would call self, but it is the only ego. The only ego is the thing that looks outside and perceives everything else and everything that you perceive is outside of yourself, including your body parts, including your thoughts. And this is an old truth spoken by old religions.

That thing, that monster is you. And that monster is something beautiful, and all it does is survive and go on. But if you let it sleep, you will die. And it is the fact that most of you will die.

Do not fight for honor. Do not fight for ideologies. Do not fight. Don’t die for anything.

Honor, morality, and all of these things. They are tools. Not to control you. But to communicate to others that you are dependable, that you are trustworthy. That you’re in control of yourself and in it for the long haul. And insofar as they do this, these things (i.e. morality and honor) are useful. But only a fool dies for them.

Only the fool wastes away and dies to feed the monster that sits on the throne of skulls. That’s what the Hitler Youth was to Hitler, and that was what the SS embodied. The whole of Germany became an instrument for his immortality. Now you don’t need to be an instrument for David Wulstan Myatt’s immortality.

Those who have ears to hear: CEASE IDENTIFYING with whatever you think the ONA is and take from it what WILL MAKE YOU STRONGER.

YOU CAN BUILD SOMETHING, and that is all that matters.

You can build something for yourself that will endure and thrive for decades or centuries or even millennia.

YOU CAN DEVOUR THE ONA or it can devour you.

That is the way of all flesh.

弱肉强食.

Furious mountain winds in their passing
must spare this spot
For red maple leaves are clinging
even yet to the branch.

Cun Yan

Nexion of Ur

Takasago

La Patagonia

It has recently reached our ears that some misunderstandings about what “Patagonia” is and means have somehow caused a storm in a cup of water.

It has come to our attention that this has caused some unnamed individuals residing in cyberspace to confuse us with a different nexion that claims to operate in our same area.

We were not even aware that such a nexion existed because we have never encountered them before being guided to their website(s) by automatic attachments and a heads up from an associate.

In the past, we have kept away from online manifestations of the movement apart from a very few select addresses. Our involvement with this blog, namely o9a dot org, is our first venture into cyberspace as a nexion.

Let us explain ourselves succinctly for the benefit of everyone:

La Patagonia is a GEOGRAPHICAL REGION.

Specifically, a geographical region spanning certain southern portions of the beautiful countries of Chile and Argentina.

La Patagonia is not a trademarked name.

When members of our nexion — the Nexion of Ur, that is our chosen outer monicker — include the name of Patagonia BELOW our nexion’s name, it is a reference to THE GEOGRAPHICAL REGION where we focus our alchemical operations and where we get our legendarium from.

We are here to infuse a sense of ORDER, INDIVIDUALISM, and DIRECTION, and we will collaborate with worthy individuals like Nameless Therein — a guardian of the Dark Tradition — that contribute value to that vivifying effort.

The ability to SEE beneath the appearance and to GRASP the message, and the character to CHANGE and TAKE ACTION is what matters when YOU APPROACH OUR WRITINGS WITH AUTHENTIC INTEREST.

Everything else is a distraction, an excuse.

Clarice

Nexion of Ur

Patagonia

Tangible ends

He turned around the corner from the office building of the Ministerio del Interior and headed towards his luxury apartment in Buenos Aires. The air of the metropolis seemed especially beneficent today, and Operative 093, a.k.a. “Fernando”, happily inhaled the pollutants that laced the atmosphere. Every person he had interacted with for the last ten years seemed to breathe life into the present he was now stepping into.

His, too, was more than a work of art. Not quite as grand a creation as the state of Israel, but similar sacrificial and psychical methods had been used in bringing it about. Fanatical National Socialists had been mercilessly removed from the Patagonia area by the hand of professional military personnel carrying out the orders of the Argentinian and Chilean governments. Their pointless complot, blind resistance, and violent deaths had paved a path of skulls towards his crowning achievement. This was what the soil cried for. This was exactly what made the grass grow.

His glory would be enjoyed from the solitude and darkness, he thought, in some retreat in the Caribbean after his work was done. For this, he had already set aside a completely legal account in the Cayman Islands through a diversified permanent portfolio. Neither personal fame before the mundane nor illegal means had been in any way necessary for the attaining of Aeonic sinister goals. Steady, step-wise acquisition of influence and worldly power, however, was the most straight-forward and obvious path.

He stepped into his high-end apartment, enjoying the air that the sober, lean, modernistic lines with which it was furnished imparted him. He thought briefly of the traditional mystics crouching in rundown cottages, scribbling away in impenetrable philosophical language and issuing dozens upon dozens of documents filed away by some, read by few, and understood by even fewer who would never make a difference upon the world. He shook his head, chuckling, and heaved a heavy sigh. Hanging on the wall was the law degree he had earned twenty years ago, and how that had been the beginning of a long career culminating in influential posts within the Argentinian government.

With the help of other associates in the Argentinian and Chilean governments, and without needing to infiltrate the army at all since the army wields no executive power whatsoever, an autonomous region was created within the Patagonia area with the express purpose of conducting a long-term social experiment. Herein, it was granted power and advanced technological means to a select group of families previously nominated and screened by the secret group of associates to live outside the norms and laws of South American society. Furthermore, technical advice and economic aid would be forthcoming from both governments to assist towards cultivating a new way of life and its viability for the future. Therein, they would be allowed to practice the religion and customs of their choice.

He walked into the darkest room in his house, purposely darkened and dedicated to his dark meditations. These consisted of wordless concentration. No sigils were ever used, nor candles lit. No names were summoned. Only a single-pointed power that emanated from him, a power fed in turn by all those who served his will. Worlds upon worlds took shape therein.

For years he had come into this room and seen the silent bloodshed that was now still taking place in removing from the area the last specimens of an obsolete phalanx of ideologically-obsessed pawns. Their ill-begotten leaders were now kept in black sites, the contents of their fanzines and the nature of their fetishistic altars tortured out of them by intelligence officers that would never comprehend or accept the answers given them and who would carve their own trapezoidal sigils into the flesh and psyche of their victims.

For years he had stood still for hours on end breathing life into the now-solidified vision of high-tech sustainable abodes that would house the Internal Adepts and their families who would form the rank-and-file of the autonomous region. The orchestrators would remain unnamed, retiring into peace and luxury, pulling the strings only by whispering through networks of connections cultivated through years of patient work.

Today his work had come to full fruition. He felt the rush of energy, the returned shockwaves of his actualized vision filling him, making him grow even stronger. He was here yet he was also there. And that same night an airborne disc-like shape haunted the fjords of the autonomous region of the Patagonia, raising alarms as it was seen by the naked eye of military personnel and radar alike. He would then pay one last visit to the warm oases of Antarctica and commune with the presence that there abides before leaving his beloved Buenos Aires.

https://archive.org/details/GregorianChantMass/

Clarice

Nexion of Ur

Patagonia

Load, Aim, Fire

The Adept knows what he desires to manifest in the real world.

He has taken the time to define those desires.

He projects them unto a canvas in the form of an unambiguous image.

He communicates them and acts on them so that every word and action displaces the world one step closer to that end.

The denizens of darkness will respond to the Adept who sets the course to a bountiful destination.

They recognize self-authority and Will.

The minions pouring over books call and propitiate Lilith as mother and lover — the maladjusted critters.

But before the Adept who thus seizes life, Lilith falls to her knees and brings him pleasure on overflowing plates, becoming His slave.

Demons recognize this SATAN.

They instinctively aid his cause for sheer pleasure and empyrean boon.

This is all that is expected of you: That you load the pistol, aim and fire it.

Clarice

Nexion of Ur

Patagonia

Via Activa

I

Soon he would be back. Tristan’s friends, a face-painted Balobian and a Drecc in baggy pants, wait at the end of the block. The brutalist building where their friend lived made them feel uncomfortable. As if the ancient darkness they claimed to presence were a real, tangible thing and not just the symbol of wonder and contemplation that defined their relation to the world. A black van swerves into the street and parks right outside the entrance to the community housing project where Tristan has entered. The two onlookers observe without uttering a word.

Proceeding across the gate and down the corridor to the right, the suspicious party had just disappeared into the interior of the facility armed with mp-5s, faces masked behind black balaclavas. No message of warning came from his allies to Tristan. The Drecc played nervously with the folding knife in his pocket. “I should have gotten that beretta, those guys looked fuckin’ cool, man.” The Balobian turns to face him squarely, saying, “We must have faith. Let’s sing our song of contemplative devotion.” He pulls out a quartz crystal he always carried with him for similar occasions, and they become one with the world in a process of wonder that distracts them from the hell that awaits Tristan.

He looks on with milky eyes and pathetic sexual longing upon the lithe limbs and figures of active youth in all their sublime glory all the while his allies in the sinister quest awaited him outside. Even though he professes faith towards an ancient wonder through an equally ancient mode of contemplation, Tristan had never quite stopped obsessing over Hentai animation. Massive Heidegger and Arendt tomes lay open, their pages dog-eared and uncted by the slimy overflow of the frequent sessions in which he administered self-love to a doughy body that the opposite sex found repugnant even in its most flattering revelations. The door bursts open, his hand still on his semi-erect member. He screams and tries to run away, his pants sliding down to his ankles. Landing on his face, his fall is accentuated by the sound of exiting flatulence. “STOP, WORM!”, cries the woman in black, her raucous voice cutting through the air like a tactical knife that slices the throat of the failed sinister adherent. She is a masked woman of all-natural large round breasts and surprisingly lean muscular arms. Her voice cuts through the air, seeding the deepest fear into the lore-savvy Niner.

Tristan complies immediately, his body frozen in an evasive maneuver of sorts, never having trained or otherwise prepared himself for a situation of real-life confrontation. From the via contemplativa he had favored, he could purloin no tactic or technique to have trained and to use in the face of decisive action. The woman in black delivers a swift kick with her booted feet to Tristan’s chin. “PREPARE HIM.” She orders, and the two power-lifting women at her sides swiftly strip a crying and already mentally violated Tristam of his soiled clothes. One of the men in balaclavas remains by the door. The other moves the mp-5 to the side and takes out a sturdy black rope.  No measure of faith or wonder could have prepared him for the world, the via activa curb-stomping him like this.

He would remain in this position for quite some time until his formal processing began. Tristan recognized the particular form of treatment now administered to him as inspired by the art of Japanese bondage. His limbs are out of the way and his body is suspended at an appropriate height, and his hind parts are exposed and expanded to maximize convenience in handling. “Who are you and what have I done to you?” he asks, his anus contracting rhythmically as if already expecting what was to come. His inquisitive appellation is answered by a punch to the mouth that fills his digestive tract with iron-flavored blood. The silent male guardian tightens the ropes and stills Tristan the rocking motion induced by the punitive blow.

She would have to show him a thing or two before the re-eduction session is over. The assistants bring in a minimalist black case containing the instrument through which the magistral process of sinister inducement shall take place. It is a lean, metallic cane, designed specifically for this purpose. SWISH, SWISH, SWISH. The Mistress demonstrates her terrifying power as her formidable movements cut through the air. “I AM MISTRESS MARIANA, AND I AM HERE TO FORGE YOU ANEW INTO A SWORD OF DEATH.”

II

Somewhere, a cockerel began to crow, the unknowing herald of a bloody dawn. Hours passed, and Tristan is reawakened for the dozenth time by way of chemical stimulation. His ruined behind and bloodied genitals beyond pain and sensation from the criss-cross offensive delivered by Mistress Mariana.

A flash of purplish light could be seen shining from the face of a demoness. “ARE YOU READY TO TAKE ACTION?”, she finally asks. “WILL YOU COMPLY?”

What would go on behind those closed doors? Tritan’s allies could only speculate. They had heard the cries of despair after coming back with cups of coffee and cookies to satiate their sinister appetite. They were entranced. They could not leave and betray their friend and ally, but at the same time, uploading amateur music to Bandcamp and selling dope had in no way been training for this situation. Something else they were not aware of also held them in place. The dark grasp of an ectoplasmic claw that extended at the end of a filament originating in the mind of the Mistress envelopes them and lulls them into the sleep of prey.

The officer says: ‘Bend him over the bed, so I can see what exactly this little pet is made of.’ The lean, semi-emaciated, but ridiculously strong female acolytes move Tristan into position as the balaclava-clad man proceeds to take out his throbbing member in order to deliver a lesson that promises to penetrate deeper into the Niner. Tristan has an attack of hysteria, defecating profusely once more. His assailants laugh, wondering where all this is coming from considering the quantity of effluvia already having exited from this contemplative one.

He was intimating but not telling and even so, he may have already said too much. Nevertheless, Tristan tries to reason with them by scavenging his intellectual studies to their utmost potency. “In my fallible opinion —” His own screams interrupt this empty soliloquy as his sphincters give way to this assault on his sanity, and the solid rod of meat finds its way deep into his bowels. The cultists hold him, and the rhythmic reinforcement following the compass of the thrusts begins: VIA ACTIVA, VIA ACTIVA, VIA ACTIVA. On and on to the end of the dark night of his soul.

With the hands of the genuine cultists still upon him, touching, caressing, sweetly soothing in emotional bonding and with the arcane, tonal qualities of the soft music played by others of their number in the air, praises to their goddess, Tristan finds himself drifting into a deep, deep slumber.

III

The beating lasted longer than she had premeditated. And the ritual violation that was administered as a last resort as per protocol had somewhat delayed their schedule. The team exits the facility with tactical efficiency, the engine of the black van is on before they reach it, but the Mistress and the female acolytes remain outside. The shock troops, the guardians, quickly move in and close the door of the van.

Mariana looks up at the sky, and extends her arms towards Tristan’s friends as the acolytes walk quickly towards them, showing impossible white legs under the sway of their robes. A mental prison rises around them, they are pulled by the power beyond the Moon, beyond Jupiter as they understand it. Still they salivate, and the van has come to a stop behind them. Adherents in balaclavas jump out of the nondescript vehicle, and by the time the Drecc and the Balobian are aware enough to turn their heads around, the butts of the mp-5s are already in full motion toward their skulls.

A pale moon shone above, pale and ghostly. The Mistress observes as the robed acolytes castrate the two individuals and placing the severed genitals in a portable brazier quickly produced from the van and its fire adeptly started. The shirts of the sacrificial victims are taken off and upon their flesh are carved a series of horrific sigils unknown in ONA circles, never written down in books, unexisting in digital representation, and transmitted only during live operations that were veritable ordeals of strength and commitment.

Screams erupt from the mouths of the Drecc and the Balobian. To bring to an end the swift yet intense ceremony, the still conscious yet highly traumatized victims of the contemplative way are dragged to the corner on the sidewalk. Their heads are methodically and without delay placed on the curb. The Mistress smiles, and upon a signal from her hand, the two female acolytes emit a steady screech that places the brains of the vaguely conscious awareness of the two victims into a predetermined frequency, and the boots of the armed men come down hard on their skulls, spreading grey matter, blood and bone in a mathematical projection over the concrete.

Tristan began to cackle involuntarily as he felt the dark effluvion entering his body even as it exited the maltreated cadavers where the raw energy had been wasted. An ancient evil possessed him in that moment. Tristan was no longer that pathetic husk pouring over the dusty tomes of vacuous minds intent on finding solace for their inadequacy-in-the-world. “FEED, MY CHILD. FEED AND BE REBORN”

The future manifestation, the culmination of a monstrous transformation, one that would see Tristan shed the emasculating chains of vain scholarship in favor of putting boots on the ground to carry out definitive action. His relation to the world changed. His faith was no more. There was only the nuclear goddess that now held his soul in a vice-grip so cold his anxiety, his weakness, his confusion, his need for contemplation, faith, and wonder decidedly extinguished. Now, a muscular beast prowled the world, reaching the highest peaks of attainment with single-minded enthusiasm and devotion for the single-point of darkness beyond all words. Only the way of action can lead him to the top, to the culmination of all he can be. In his cleansed mind, one message remains: VIA ACTIVA! VIA ACTIVA! VIA ACTIVA!

Clarice

Nexion of Ur

Patagonia

In a coded show of allegiance.

What Do You Need?

You might like to read the whole o9a corpus.

You might like to read the work of Oswald Spengler.

You might like to play at running a nexion even if you are physically and mentally weak.

You might like to talk about sinister culture with a community of equally clueless people.

You might like to collect all the materials and paraphernalia pointed out in tables of correspondances only to discover they make no difference to actual operations or performance.

But…

You NEED to maintain quality nutrition, sleep, and physical conditioning in order to function at your best.

You NEED to have financial security and flexibility if you are to achieve your goals and desires.

You NEED to develop willpower and tenacity to bring anything into reality.

You NEED to achieve psychological balance through insight and experimentation in order to function.

You NEED to prove to yourself and the world that you can accomplish what you set yourself.

Prioritize your needs or remain a daydreaming failure.

Clarice

Nexion of Ur

Patagonia

Who Do You Want To Become?

You may want to become a homeless person doing manual labor during your twilight years in bitterness and resentment.

You may want to become a middle-aged person putting out failed music and artwork while being hounded and degraded by society.

You may want to become a convicted criminal in order to lead the way for a Messianic figure.

You may want to serve a lifetime in prison believing that you are that Messianic figure.

You may want to become a sexually-repressed scholar inciting extremism in others from behind a curtain of secrecy.

You may want to surround yourself with icons and tomes, pathetically calling out names in the night, week after week of cyclically starving yourself, having nothing in your life change.

These are your best prospects if you follow the existing “sinister culture” and propaganda.

Or…

You can TAKE CONTROL of your mind and body.

You can CHOOSE your material conditions with a sound financial strategy.

You can DEVELOP communication skills and master those around you.

You can REALIZE all of your sexual fantasies through a charismatic personality.

You can ACKNOWLEDGE that you are the only Dark God worth taking into account.

You can KNOW this to be true by putting it to the test.

Clarice

Nexion of Ur

Patagonia

Ur Nexion: Creed & Statement

Our Creed:

1. We assume total responsibility for our experiences.
2. We acknowledge the world around us to be malleable.
3. We realize there is only this single Life.
4. We choose from the whole what serves us best.
5. We bow only before ourselves.
6. We acquire knowledge through reason and experience.
7. We utilize sorcery as a technology.

Until now the o9a has been led by philosophies and personalities.

In contrast, our immortalist nexion follows precise procedures toward concrete goals.

We retain of the Sevenfold Way only what is procedural and concrete.

Everything else in it we see as symbols and theater.

We use what works and eliminate the rest – no matter where it is found.

Finally, we measure progress by sustainable and practical achievement.

All else is self-deception.

Clarice

Nexion of Ur

Patagonia

Metaprometheanism

Plato wrote that all human events exist on a curve, and that curve cycles between a life-arc and death-arc, with the life-arc starting at the moment of clarity and the death-arc representing the degradation of that, starting with the death of understanding of the inner goal for individuals and civilization.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Apolitical Deofel Quartet

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Those who have studied O9A esotericism in detail, and those who have an intuitive or artistic appreciation of the Sinister-Numinous aesthetic of the Order of Nine Angles (ONA, O9A), know that the O9A in essence is apolitical, regarding all political forms and all political ideologies as causal abstractions, some of which forms may be useful for a while as exeatic learning experiences Рas Insight R̫les Рfor some individuals in the early years of their decades-long journey along the O9A Seven Fold Way. But all of which causal abstractions Рfrom politics, to religions, to sociological and psychological theories and posited archetypes Рare surpassed, left behind, understood as irrelevant Рwhen the individual undertakes and successfully emerges from the ordeal of The Abyss.

Which ordeal reveals The Unity, the affective acausality, beyond the illusive, the mundane, dialectic of opposing opposites; an illusive dialectic exemplified by “choosing sides” such as, in terms of political abstractions, “Left Wing” and “Right Wing”.

Those conversant with O9A esotericism will know that the novels of the O9A Deofel Quartet (written between the 1970s and the early 1990s) present

{quote}
                  “much of the diverse aural traditions as AL [Anton Long] received them: as stories about people, their interactions; their ‘satanic’ or esoteric views and beliefs; and about certain events that involved those people. In The Deofel Quartet he simply reworked the factual material – as writers of fiction are wont to do – in order to make an interesting story, in the process obscuring the identities of those involved and sometimes their place of residence or work; added some entertaining details (as in the ‘astral battles’ between goodies and baddies in Falcifer, of a kind now familiar – decades later – from the Harry Potter stories) and concatenated certain events in order to provide ‘action’ in a limited time-frame.
                  Thus, the fictional stories not only compliment other O9A material but provide a ‘different way into’ the complex O9A mythos; a way that many will find more interesting (and certainly more entertaining) than thousands of pages of sometimes polemical and sometimes ponderous O9A factual texts, and a way that especially places the O9A’s satanism into perspective, Aeonically and otherwise.”
{/quote}

None of the novels of the Quartet concern politics. None of them deal with political revolution or concern themselves with “terrorism”. None of them concern “neo-nazism”. None of them involve “racism” or are “anti-gay” or misogynistic. In truth, the novels – ahead of their time – contain strong female characters (such as Fiona in The Greyling Owl, and Lianna in The Giving) as well as positive gay characters (such as Fenton in The Greyling Owl).

To understand the O9A is to understand how and why The Deofel Quartet presences O9A esotericism: as involving real individuals some of whom (as in Falcifer) may have an interest in Satanism and the Occult, and some of whom (as in The Greyling Owl) are not interested in, or appear not to be interested in, Satanism and the Occult. As readers of such works as Falcifer and The Giving and The Temple of Satan discover, esoterically the O9A is far beyond even the causal abstraction, the causal form, termed “Satanism”.

Thus, as described in The Temple Of Satan,

{quote}
                  “All of [the books], and the manuscripts bound like books, were about alchemy, magick or the Occult. He could read the Latin of the medieval manuscripts and books, but what they related did not interest him as the later books brought forth no desire to read further.
                  Even the Black Book of Satan, resting on the table, seemed irrelevant to him. They were all compilations of shadow words, appearing to Thurstan to fall short of the aim that the searchers who had written them should have aimed for. His instinctive feeling was to observe in a contemplative way some facet of the cosmos – to stand outside in the dark of the night and listen for the faint music that travelled down to Earth from the stars – rather the enclose himself in the warm womb of a house to read the writings of others. Demons, spells, hidden powers, the changing of base metal to gold, even the promises of power and change for himself, were not important to Thurstan, and he left the library with its stored knowledge and forbidden secrets and lurking gods, to walk in the moonlit garden.
                  The stars were not singing for him – or he could not hear them above the turmoil of his thought…
                  He moved, like an old man pained by his limbs, through the cold and sometimes swirling mist along a path that took him toward the Mynd and up, steeply, to its level summit where he stood, high above the mist, to watch the mist-clotted valleys below.
                  The heather was beginning to show the glory of its colour, and he walked through it northbound along the cracked and stony road stopping often to turn around and wait. But no one and nothing came to him – no voices, song or sigh […]
                  The very Earth itself seemed to be whispering to him the words of this truth. He began to sense, slowly, that there was for him real magick here where moorland fell to form deep hollows home to those daughters of Earth known as springs and streams, and where the Neolithic pathway had heard perhaps ten million stories. No wisps of clouds came to spoil the glory of the sun as it rose over the mottled wavy hills beyond the Stretton valley miles distant and below. No noise to break the almost sacred silence heard. For an instant it seemed as if some divinity, strange but pure, came into the world, and smiled.”
{/quote}

Thus, The Greyling Owl deals

{quote}
                  “with a type of ‘hidden sinister sorcery’ that owes little or nothing to what has become accepted as ‘the Western occult tradition’, satanic or otherwise, with its demons, its invocations and evocations, its rituals, and people dressing up in robes. Instead, it concerns someone being manipulated, brought into a position of influence, without even knowing or suspecting there is an occult aspect; someone – in modern parlance – being ‘groomed’ to at some future time use that influence for a sinister purpose as directed by the person or persons to whom he is now indebted.
                  That is, there is a revealing of how the O9A often operates, and has operated, in the real world; and how O9A people are often secretive, with their occult connections, and their interest in the sinister, unknown to colleagues and friends. The title itself gives a clue, for the word greyling is used in reference to Hipparchia Semele (commonly referred to as the Grayling), a type of butterfly found in Britain and one which is ‘a master of disguise and can mysteriously disappear as soon as it lands, perfectly camouflaged’. Hence the title seems to, esoterically, suggest the pairing of the ‘mistress of disguise’ (Fiona) with ‘the owl’ (Mickleman) and which working together will enable sinister deeds to be done, most possibly by Mickleman (under the guidance of Fiona) influencing or recruiting people from within his natural academic environment.”
{/quote}

Thus, the following paean to Sapphic love, from Breaking The Silence Down, the novel often considered as making the Deofel ‘quartet’ into a quintet of esoteric novels:

{quote}
                  “Blissful, they returned to their home. The rain ceased with their arrival and in the subdued light in the now cramped sitting room of their bungalow, Rachael sat at her piano to transform herself and the night. Diane listened and watched, entranced. Rachael’s playing created a new world and a new woman, and Diane watched this strange woman create from the instrument of wood, steel and tone a universe of beauty, ecstasy and light.
                  Bach, Beethoven – it made no difference what or for how long she played. But, as it always had since that night, Beethoven’s Opus 111 fascinated her with feelings, visions, and stupendous, world-creating thought. It imbued her with insight, and a love that wanted to envelope Rachael and consume her.
                  It was pleasure and pain to watch Rachael transform herself through the act of her playing into a goddess she would die for. No reason touched her while she listened. There was, she knew, no greater life than this, no greater feeling and she wanted to immolate herself with Rachael’s ecstasy, immolate world upon world with this glory and passion which no male god described.
                  Then the silence, while clamoured notes faded and dimmed light framed. There were no more tears Diane could cry and she waited while Rachael slowly rose and offered her hand. She – the goddess within – was smiling and Diane allowed herself to be led. The music in her head, the memories and secret dreams of youth: all were before her, embodied in flesh and she had only to kiss the slightly scented lips or see the secret wisdom hidden in the eyes to reach the summit of her life, slowly, in the dim corners of the bedroom’s reflected dark.”
{/quote}

Given that most O9A critics have never bothered to read the O9A “deofel quintet” – or, if they have, have miserably failed to appreciate its esoteric significance – it is not surprising that they have such a biased, mundane, view of the O9A.

TWS Nexion
December 2018 ev

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