3rd of January 1899


Editorial

Gods, I am afraid, have disappointed me before.

Painfully truthful divinations, painlessly sweet lies that rot the soul. Curses that permeate existence.

One must imagine that divinity is a harsh ordeal. Power corrupts, as is known – what, then, when power is one’s birthright? Are gods capable of corruption? Or perhaps born corrupt?

Pontifications are much too human. Human in perspective, morals, expression – one could go on. Gods, you see, care not for humanity, just as humans care not for ants. Would you, even if you created them? Even after your children stab you in the heart and pluck out your soul?

No, gods care not for humanity, for it is the very thing they lack. For millennia we perverted their ways – from truth to lies, from brutality to kindness, from the divine to the humane. We have been left to our own devices, and in turn, have become too human. Too independent.

No, gods no longer understand us. They fear us. There is no respect for a creator who regrets their work.


Art of London

Neathy Arcana
by The Ranine Illustrator

See more of their art.


News of Art, Art of News

Wind Carries Words Of A New Beginning

An awful thing has come to an end. That is a merciful lie, of course – nothing comes to an end forever, until everything does. Though we may continue to suffer, the world still moves and we still live. There is nothing humanity cannot overcome, as long as there is at least one human left to fight.

So we say goodbye to the old, and welcome the new. We have suffered, we have survived, and we have learned much from our survival. We emerge better, stronger, more prepared to face what is yet to come.

At times, existence itself is noteworthy enough. It doesn’t pay to overgorge the soul with disaster; perhaps the same goes for glee. At times, you just need to take a deep breath, and think on existence itself.

In this week’s news, then, dearest reader – the new year is here, and you are still alive. We are immensely proud of you.


Ask Mother Goose

Dear Mother Goose,
Ah, ah, have I gone mad? Mad with sloth? Cursed? Deranged? Ah, my poor reputation.
Late


Dear Late,
Do not fret, for there is still time. And after, more time. And after, still more- ah, I am not making things any better, am I?

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