19
17 Sep 12 at 11 pm

impishillumination:

James Ensor - La Vengeance de Hop-Frog

    And now, while the whole assembly (the apes included) were convulsed with laughter, the jester suddenly uttered a shrill whistle; when the chain flew violently up for about thirty feet — dragging with it the dismayed and struggling ourang-outangs, and leaving them suspended in mid-air between the sky-light and the floor. Hop-Frog, clinging to the chain as it rose, still maintained his relative position in respect to the eight maskers, and still (as if nothing were the matter) continued to thrust his torch down towards them, as though endeavoring to discover who they were.

    So thoroughly astonished were the whole company at this ascent, that a dead silence, of about a minute’s duration, ensued. It was broken by just such a low, harsh, grating sound, as had before attracted the attention of the king and his councillors, when the former threw the wine in the face of Trippetta. But, on the present occasion, there could be no question as to whence the sound issued. It came from the fang-like teeth of the dwarf, who ground them and gnashed them as he foamed at the mouth, and glared, with an expression of maniacal rage, into the upturned countenances of the king and his seven companions.

    “Ah, ha!” said at length the infuriated jester. “Ah, ha! I begin to see who these people are, now!” Here, pretending to scrutinize the king more closely, he held the flambeau to the flaxen coat which enveloped him, and which instantly burst into a sheet of vivid flame. In less than half a minute the whole eight ourang-outangs were blazing fiercely, amid the shrieks of the multitude who gazed at them from below, horror-stricken, and without the power to render them the slightest assistance.

    At length the flames, suddenly increasing in virulence, forced the jester to climb higher up the chain, to be out of their reach; and, as he made this movement, the crowd again sank, for a brief instant, into silence. The dwarf seized his opportunity, and once more spoke:

    “I now see distinctly,” he said, “what manner of people these maskers are. They are a great king and his seven privy-councillors — a king who does not scruple to strike a defenceless girl, and his seven councillors who abet him in the outrage. As for myself, I am simply Hop-Frog, the jester — and this is my last jest.”

    Owing to the high combustibility of both the flax and the tar to which it adhered, the dwarf had scarcely made an end of his brief speech before the work of vengeance was complete. The eight corpses swung in their chains, a fetid, blackened, hideous, and indistinguishable mass. The cripple hurled his torch at them, clambered leisurely to the ceiling, and disappeared through the sky-light.

    It is supposed that Trippetta, stationed on the roof of the saloon, had been the accomplice of her friend in his fiery revenge, and that, together, they effected their escape to their own country: for neither was seen again.

Edgar Allan Poe, Hop-Frog: or, the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs

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impishillumination:

James Ensor - La Vengeance de Hop-Frog

    And now, while the whole assembly (the apes included) were convulsed with laughter, the jester suddenly uttered a shrill whistle; when the chain flew violently up for about thirty feet — dragging with it the dismayed and struggling ourang-outangs, and leaving them suspended in mid-air between the sky-light and the floor. Hop-Frog, clinging to the chain as it rose, still maintained his relative position in respect to the eight maskers, and still (as if nothing were the matter) continued to thrust his torch down towards them, as though endeavoring to discover who they were.    So thoroughly astonished were the whole company at this ascent, that a dead silence, of about a minute’s duration, ensued. It was broken by just such a low, harsh, grating sound, as had before attracted the attention of the king and his councillors, when the former threw the wine in the face of Trippetta. But, on the present occasion, there could be no question as to whence the sound issued. It came from the fang-like teeth of the dwarf, who ground them and gnashed them as he foamed at the mouth, and glared, with an expression of maniacal rage, into the upturned countenances of the king and his seven companions.    “Ah, ha!” said at length the infuriated jester. “Ah, ha! I begin to see who these people are, now!” Here, pretending to scrutinize the king more closely, he held the flambeau to the flaxen coat which enveloped him, and which instantly burst into a sheet of vivid flame. In less than half a minute the whole eight ourang-outangs were blazing fiercely, amid the shrieks of the multitude who gazed at them from below, horror-stricken, and without the power to render them the slightest assistance.    At length the flames, suddenly increasing in virulence, forced the jester to climb higher up the chain, to be out of their reach; and, as he made this movement, the crowd again sank, for a brief instant, into silence. The dwarf seized his opportunity, and once more spoke:    “I now see distinctly,” he said, “what manner of people these maskers are. They are a great king and his seven privy-councillors — a king who does not scruple to strike a defenceless girl, and his seven councillors who abet him in the outrage. As for myself, I am simply Hop-Frog, the jester — and this is my last jest.”    Owing to the high combustibility of both the flax and the tar to which it adhered, the dwarf had scarcely made an end of his brief speech before the work of vengeance was complete. The eight corpses swung in their chains, a fetid, blackened, hideous, and indistinguishable mass. The cripple hurled his torch at them, clambered leisurely to the ceiling, and disappeared through the sky-light.    It is supposed that Trippetta, stationed on the roof of the saloon, had been the accomplice of her friend in his fiery revenge, and that, together, they effected their escape to their own country: for neither was seen again.

Edgar Allan Poe, Hop-Frog: or, the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs
 14
17 Jul 12 at 10 pm

impishillumination:

Edmund Dulac - Illustration for Edgar Allan Poe’s Israfel

In Heaven a spirit both dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute:
None sing so wild — so well
As the angel Israfel —
And the giddy stars are mute.
 
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love —
While, to listen, the red levin
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And all the listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
With those unusual strings.

But the Heavens that angel trod
Where deep thoughts are a duty —
Where Love is a grown god —
Where Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

Thou art not, therefore, wrong
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassion’d song:
To thee the laurels belong
Best bard — because the wisest.

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit —
Thy grief — if any — thy love
With the fervor of thy lute —
Well may the stars be mute!
 
Yes, Heaven is thine: but this
Is a world of sweets and sours:
Our flowers are merely — flowers,
And the shadow of thy bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I did dwell where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He would not sing one half as well —
One half as passionately —
And a loftier note than this would swell
From my lyre within the sky.

* And the angel Israfel who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures. — Koran

(via impishillumination-deactivated2)

impishillumination:

Edmund Dulac - Illustration for Edgar Allan Poe’s Israfel

In Heaven a spirit both dwellWhose heart-strings are a lute:None sing so wild — so wellAs the angel Israfel —And the giddy stars are mute. Tottering aboveIn her highest noon,The enamored moonBlushes with love —While, to listen, the red levinPauses in Heaven. And they say (the starry choirAnd all the listening things)That Israfeli’s fireIs owing to that lyreWith those unusual strings.But the Heavens that angel trodWhere deep thoughts are a duty —Where Love is a grown god — Where Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in a star.Thou art not, therefore, wrongIsrafeli, who despisestAn unimpassion’d song:To thee the laurels belongBest bard — because the wisest.The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit —Thy grief — if any — thy loveWith the fervor of thy lute —Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine: but thisIs a world of sweets and sours:Our flowers are merely — flowers,And the shadow of thy blissIs the sunshine of ours.If I did dwell where IsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He would not sing one half as well —One half as passionately —And a loftier note than this would swellFrom my lyre within the sky.* And the angel Israfel who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures. — Koran
 78
15 Jul 12 at 10 pm

impishillumination:

William Blake - Angel of the Revelation

Then I saw another mighty angel coming down from heaven. He was robed in a cloud, with a rainbow above his head; his face was like the sun, and his legs were like fiery pillars. He was holding a little scroll, which lay open in his hand. He planted his right foot on the sea and his left foot on the land, and he gave a loud shout like the roar of a lion. When he shouted, the voices of the seven thunders spoke. And when the seven thunders spoke, I was about to write; but I heard a voice from heaven say, “Seal up what the seven thunders have said and do not write it down.” Then the angel I had seen standing on the sea and on the land raised his right hand to heaven. And he swore by him who lives for ever and ever, who created the heavens and all that is in them, the earth and all that is in it, and the sea and all that is in it, and said, “There will be no more delay! But in the days when the seventh angel is about to sound his trumpet, the mystery of God will be accomplished, just as he announced to his servants the prophets.”

Revelation 10: 1-7

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impishillumination:

William Blake - Angel of the Revelation

Then I saw another mighty angel coming down from heaven. He was robed in a cloud, with a rainbow above his head; his face was like the sun, and his legs were like fiery pillars. He was holding a little scroll, which lay open in his hand. He planted his right foot on the sea and his left foot on the land, and he gave a loud shout like the roar of a lion. When he shouted, the voices of the seven thunders spoke. And when the seven thunders spoke, I was about to write; but I heard a voice from heaven say, “Seal up what the seven thunders have said and do not write it down.” Then the angel I had seen standing on the sea and on the land raised his right hand to heaven. And he swore by him who lives for ever and ever, who created the heavens and all that is in them, the earth and all that is in it, and the sea and all that is in it, and said, “There will be no more delay! But in the days when the seventh angel is about to sound his trumpet, the mystery of God will be accomplished, just as he announced to his servants the prophets.”

Revelation 10: 1-7
 67
14 Apr 12 at 2 am

illuminare-illuminoir:

Edmund Dulac - Illustration for The Bells and Other Poems by Edgar Allan Poe

(via illuminare-illuminoir-deactivat)

illuminare-illuminoir:

Edmund Dulac - Illustration for The Bells and Other Poems by Edgar Allan Poe