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Doug Snyder's Reviews > Attila
Attila
by
by
Medium: Love is the school of privileges and freedom is the privilege of this school.
"Of those who love us we only feel loved by those we love. The love of the others is sigilegion," thought the little father, great son, and woman. The willow wept and the aspen quaked. The water nymph fluttered. The saurian's tail broke off and snaking its way upstream it went in search of its tongue. Isis, dumbfounded, had come across a janeirean phallus. Thus rose the morning, following a night when the moon had rekindled mourning and the candles the veil, it rose from the east and from the seer, and both middays converged in the clef of a crescent and snowcapped arch.
(Of the many we love we only feel loved by those who do not love us, said the siphon to the echo)
[]
From the dawn, a blister on the Latin horizon, the sun sprouted green, a cold nail on the blushless blister, unhealthy wound that had not bled, itself light's cauterization of an earth sieved through metal without being cleansed. Contrasting with that violence, that onslaught, the night, detached from the earth on all horizons, serenely retreated from the sky, truth be told, a balm for the eyes, frugality that didn't seem to border the light directly, that seemed to veil itself in situ, the absence of night veiled with the absence of light, in a celestial no-man's land.
It was then that... but wait, where were they coming from? ... the thistle seeds appeared, floating in the southern wind not that they appeared arriving but that they appeared being on the southern wind that blew, which had been blowing all night, gently without gusts or breaks, con-stant, unchanged, and close to the ground... legions of unshakeable thistle seeds tumbling through the air, conveying a loose, leisurely movement... alighting ... landing ... taking off again. The air had a spectral frost, imbued with the saturnine season, the chrysanthemum flock, a shepherd king, who endorses gold in order to draw purple to his breast, the Arcadian king of a migrating sky, flock of stars landing among a flock of kings, the nocturnal chrysanthemums in their manure-dipped boots, dictating laws of love, from autumn to spring, unwitting lovers of peonies, a love assembled without clockworks, interlocked beyond the stoppage and spring, not committed, pledged, captivated, which did not redeem the flaw of its origin but the flaw of its end ... precession of waking in sleep, thistle seed and chrysanthemum, enigma-less visitation.
"Of those who love us we only feel loved by those we love. The love of the others is sigilegion," thought the little father, great son, and woman. The willow wept and the aspen quaked. The water nymph fluttered. The saurian's tail broke off and snaking its way upstream it went in search of its tongue. Isis, dumbfounded, had come across a janeirean phallus. Thus rose the morning, following a night when the moon had rekindled mourning and the candles the veil, it rose from the east and from the seer, and both middays converged in the clef of a crescent and snowcapped arch.
(Of the many we love we only feel loved by those who do not love us, said the siphon to the echo)
[]
From the dawn, a blister on the Latin horizon, the sun sprouted green, a cold nail on the blushless blister, unhealthy wound that had not bled, itself light's cauterization of an earth sieved through metal without being cleansed. Contrasting with that violence, that onslaught, the night, detached from the earth on all horizons, serenely retreated from the sky, truth be told, a balm for the eyes, frugality that didn't seem to border the light directly, that seemed to veil itself in situ, the absence of night veiled with the absence of light, in a celestial no-man's land.
It was then that... but wait, where were they coming from? ... the thistle seeds appeared, floating in the southern wind not that they appeared arriving but that they appeared being on the southern wind that blew, which had been blowing all night, gently without gusts or breaks, con-stant, unchanged, and close to the ground... legions of unshakeable thistle seeds tumbling through the air, conveying a loose, leisurely movement... alighting ... landing ... taking off again. The air had a spectral frost, imbued with the saturnine season, the chrysanthemum flock, a shepherd king, who endorses gold in order to draw purple to his breast, the Arcadian king of a migrating sky, flock of stars landing among a flock of kings, the nocturnal chrysanthemums in their manure-dipped boots, dictating laws of love, from autumn to spring, unwitting lovers of peonies, a love assembled without clockworks, interlocked beyond the stoppage and spring, not committed, pledged, captivated, which did not redeem the flaw of its origin but the flaw of its end ... precession of waking in sleep, thistle seed and chrysanthemum, enigma-less visitation.
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Reading Progress
January 2, 2026
–
Started Reading
January 2, 2026
– Shelved
January 6, 2026
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Finished Reading
