Early morning - the 30th of December 2023
I approached the bronze statue (that was erected in 1927) so to observe from really close the details in the work of the sculptor. Then I noticed that the sun is standing above its head. It was that very moment that I realized how a photo will look like: The Discus Thrower of Athens as holder of a black sun.
"Our dead are the only ones with the right to make a demand today, and indeed to us all, at the front or at home. They are the eternal monuments, the voices of our national conscience, which constantly drive us on to do our duty."
Joseph Goebbels - Christmas Eve 1942
The unplugged demo “Out of the Dungeon” will be released on CD for the first time in 2024, in the 30th year after initial recording and release! At the same time, our debut album “Facta Loquuntur” will be made available on CD faithfully replicating the initial release via German No Colours Records, in 1996. This is the last layout done by our long-time friend and ally, the late Hjarulv Henker (RIP), and we dedicate this CD to him!
HORDE ABSURD
Available from:
https://frost-and-fire.com/shop/
Dostoevsky rushes of passion to passion.
Of problem to problem, from depth to depth.
Tempered, pain and pleasure.
People in distorted, unnatural forms.
Corruption, and abyss Genius, madness and idiocy;
Thoughts clear and pure as the sun And distorted until the morbid absurdity.
This is his journey.
A large racial soul in birth or death convulsions Is like a person in a hospital bed, I suspect.
Crisis in the air.
Dostoyevsky is a few daring steps ahead of his time.
It follows him dizzy, anxious, incredulous, but follows.
He let loose, we must follow.
Here we find everything: naturalism, expressionism.
Idealism, skepticism, and what we have made.
But he can not really talk about these things,
Dostoevsky only knows the names of them.
He writes what he sees.
Burning like hell into the brain and the soul.
He writes because this is one of the few things you can write about That means anything in the 19th Century.
The Politics there were changing He writes for his love of Russia,
And his hatred burns against the stranger.
Against the West, the soul...
He must simply accept this.
He comes from nowhere and belongs nowhere.
And remains, always Russian.
His novels are terrific ballads.
What is written in the pages is ridiculous.
Petty, insignificant, sometimes meaningless.
Between the lines, everything can be found.
One has to guess with him and feel.
Flakes, stuff, and plaster, form and symbol.
Including a nation's soul, which jostles forward.
Joseph Goebbels "Michael"
