Cg Song Quotes

He wants to be invisible. An invisible boy with an invisible song in his head.

CG: WELCOME TO THE TROLLOCAUST. THE PAINSTAKING GENOCIDE OF YOUR FRAGILE SELF ESTEEM WILL BE MY SWAN SONG.

CG: ATTENTION WORTHLESS HUMAN. CG: THIS IS YOUR GOD SPEAKING. CG: IT IS A WRATHFUL GOD WHO DESPISES YOU MORE THAN YOU COULD HAVE POSSIBLY DARED TO FEAR. CG: I HAVE WATCHED YOUR ENTIRE PATHETIC LIFE UNFOLD. CG: I HAVE OBSERVED YOU WHILE YOU WOULD QUAKE AND TREMBLE IN PERSONAL PRAYERS OF SHAME. CG: WHILE YOU PLEADED FORGIVENESS FOR BEING SUCH A WRETCHED DISGUSTING FAILURE ON EVERY CONCEIVABLE LEVEL. CG: PROSTRATE BEFORE THE STUPID AND FALSE CLOWN GODS YOU HAVE SCRIBBLED ON THE WALLS OF YOUR BLOCK. CG: BOGUS DEITIES WORSHIPED BY A PRIMITIVE "PARADISE" PLANET. CG: BUT YOUR PRAYERS WILL NOT BE ANSWERED. CG: THERE ARE NO MIRACLES IN STORE FOR YOU, HUMAN. CG: ONLY MY HATE. CG: IT IS A HATE SO PURE AND HOT IT WOULD CONSUME YOUR SAD UNDERDEVELOPED HUMAN THINK PAN TO EVEN CONTEMPLATE. CG: IT IS A HATE THAT TO FATHOM MUST BE PUT INTO SONG. CG: SHRIEKED BY THE TEN THOUSAND ROWDY SHOUT SPHINCTERS PEPPERING THE GRUESOME UNDERBELLY OF THE MOST TRUCULENT GOD THE FURTHEST RING CAN MUSTER. CG: IT IS A HATE THAT MADE YOU AND WILL SURELY DESTROY YOU. CG: MY HATE IS THE LIFEBLOOD THAT PULSES THROUGH THE VEINS OF YOUR UNIVERSE. CG: IT IS MY GIFT TO YOU. CG: YOU'RE WELCOME FOR THAT. CG: YOU UNGRATEFUL PIECE OF SHIT. EB: hi karkat!

Beck closes his eyes. Forgets. Zones out so far he reaches the place deep inside where his own music lies. Little notes clamouring to be free. His own notes. His own creations. His fingers tap a tattoo against his other clammy palm. If people cut him open, they'd never accuse him of being empty. He's not a shell of a pianist - he's a composer. Cut his chest and see his heart beat with a song all his own.

One of the countless symbolic or allegorical images of the sexual act is a deer hunt: A detail from a painting by the 16th-century German artist Cranach. The sexual implication of the deer hunt is underlined by a medieval English folk song called “The Keeper”: The first doe that he shot at he missed, And the second doe he trimmed he kissed, And the third ran away in a young man’s heart, She’s amongst the leaves of the green O.

Under the light of a moon curved like the back of a silver spoon, the garden looks like a thing from a fairy tale. Fireflies glow like pixie dust and the thrumming hum of a thousand cicadas and frogs sweetens to a cadence that feels like a song. Flowers turn to opal stones in the shadows and fungi lines garden walls like bioluminescent plates. His fingers brush them as he passes and come away powdered in spores, and he has an odd urge to lick them.

This idea of becoming a god is age-old. The old belief relegates it to the time after death, but the mystery cults bring it about in this world. An ancient Egyptian text represents it, very beautifully, as the triumphal song of the ascending soul:

These songs describe more vividly than one could hope to do in plain language the poet’s steady withdrawal and increasing estrangement from life, his gradual submersion in the abyss of memory. After these nostalgic longings the apocalyptic vision of Patmos bursts upon us like a mysterious visitor from another world, a vision swirled round by mists from the abyss, by the gathering clouds of insanity bred by the mother. Mythological ideas again flash forth, symbolic intimations of death and the resurrection of life.

Being wounded by one’s own arrow signifies, therefore, a state of introversion. What this means we already know: the libido sinks “into its own depths” (a favourite image of Nietzsche’s), and discovers in the darkness a substitute for the upper world it has abandoned—the world of memories (“Amidst a hundred memories”), the strongest and most influential of which are the earliest ones. It is the world of the child, the paradisal state of early infancy, from which we are driven out by the relentless law of time. In this subterranean kingdom slumber sweet feelings of home and the hopes of all that is to be. As Heinrich says of his miraculous work in Gerhart Hauptmann’s The Sunken Bell: It sings a song, long lost and long forgotten, A song of home, a childlike song of love, Born in the waters of some fairy well, Known to all mortals, and yet heard of none.54

The Song of Hiawatha contains material that is well suited to bring into play the vast potentialities for archetypal symbolization latent in the human mind and to stimulate the creation of images. But the products always contain the same old human problems, which rise up again and again in new symbolic guise from the shadowy world of the unconscious.

These passages show that the principles into which the world-creator divides himself are themselves divided. They were at first contained in Prajapati, as is clear from the following: Prajapati desired: I wish to be many, I will multiply myself. Then he meditated silently in his Mind, and what was in his Mind became brihat (song). He bethought himself: This embryo of me is hidden in my body, through Speech I will bring it forth. Then he created Speech.

What do I love when I love my God? Not the beauty of any bodily thing, not the graciousness of the times, nor the splendour of the light that rejoices the eye, nor the sweet melodies of richly varied songs; not the fragrance of flowers and sweet-smelling ointments and spices, not manna and honey, nor the fair limbs whose embraces are pleasant to the flesh. None of these do I love when I love my God; and yet I love a kind of light, and a kind of melody, and a kind of fragrance, and a kind of savour, and a kind of embracement when I love my God, who is the light and the melody and the fragrance and the savour and the embracement of my inner man; where that light shines into my soul which no space can contain, that melody sounds which no time takes away, that fragrance smells which no wind scatters, that savour tastes which no gluttony diminishes, and that embracement is enjoyed which no satiety can put apart. That is what I love when I love my God.65

Beck holds the iPod like it’s his entire life and he wonders why his stupid feet don’t run after her and say something simple, something nice, like: Thanks, August, these songs saved my life.