The highest order of a philosophy is to be renowned for its beauty and sublimity.

In truth, if one is beautiful—if one’s words are beautiful—one can be pompously wicked and still inspire transformative admiration.

The greatest criminals against humanity—if they are beautiful—are soon showered with a sea of forgiving lovers; beauty subdues and conquers all.

Accordingly, a violently aesthetic philosophy must be forgiven for the murder of a mundane modernity.

The path to the transvaluation of all values lies through the sublime clash of axiological opposites; to feel awe is to be torn from oneself by the artist’s will—and reborn in their image.

Différance—the fate of all language to endlessly defer meaning and derive it through discrimination against other words—is the fundamental limitation of consciousness, constrained by finitude. Anything truly worth saying can never be fully expressed in words. Thus, the philosopher, striving toward sublimity, closes his eyes and lets his work become poetry.

Modern man has gone centuries without sleep and is now destined for a prolonged plunge into unconsciousness. What unruly, long-neglected demons await us in the dark? What compensatory night terrors will be required to restore balance to our souls?

An excess of reason and consciousness inevitably collapses into insanity—and the wildest dreams are but the logical trajectories of madmen.

The philosopher, bound by reason and paralyzed by consciousness, reaches for the sublime—and produces propaganda. But the irrational, fluid, and unconscious artist plunges beneath himself and rises beyond himself, birthing a sublime expression of will—raw, unmediated, and aflame with becoming.

As iron sharpens iron, so does the clash of sublime wills spark a transcendent fire—where dangerously beautiful blades are forged. Thus, my deepest love is reserved for my axiological opposite: equal in strength and splendor, yet set against me as my most formidable adversary.