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1. Countries=USA
2. Audience Score=2874 vote
3. 
4. Info=The Austrian Franz Jägerstätter, a conscientious objector, refuses to fight for the Nazis in World War II
5. runtime=174minute
6. director=Terrence Malick

See also From the introduction: I love those who know not how to live except through surrender, for they are on the way elsewhere. Holderlin, Kleist, and Nietzsche were of the Promethean race which is in revolt against customary forms and tends thereby to destroy itself. The uncanny light of the daimon flashes from their eyes, and it is he who speaks through their lips. He continues, indeed, to speak through their lips when other- wise they would be dumb; and his strength makes itself manifest in them when nothing else remains to quicken the spirit and when the bodily forces are far advanced in decay. Never is the dread guest more plainly perceptible than when the mind of the host, rent asunder by formidable tensions, has collapsed, and the onlooker catches a glimpse of the inmost abysses where the daimon lurks. In all three of those whom this book concerns, daimonic strength (previously veiled) became conspicuous when the guiding intelligence of the ordinary self had tottered and fallen. The first thing that is obvious in Holderlin, Kleist, and Nietzsche is their detachment from the world. The daimon plucks away from realities those whom he holds in his grip. Not one of the three had wife or children, any more than had their congeners Beethoven and Michelangelo; they had neither fixed home nor permanent possessions, neither settled occupation nor secure footing in the world. They were nomads, vagrants, eccentrics; they were despised and rejected; they lived in the shadows. Not one of them ever had a bed to call his own; they sat in hired chairs, wrote at hired desks, and wandered from one lodging-house to an- other. Nowhere did they take root; not even Eros could establish binding ties for those whom the jealous daimon had espoused. Their friendships were transitory, their appointments fugitive, their work unremunerative; they stood ever in vacant spaces and created in the void. Thus their existence was like that of shooting stars, which flash on indeterminable paths, whereas Goethe circled in a fixed Orbit. Holderlin, Kleist, and Nietzsche were gamblers, staking their all with magnificent indifference upon the turn of a single card, to win or to lose a measureless prize; for the daimon loathes the tedious heaping-up of petty gains in a savings- box. To the daimonic temperament reality seems inadequate: Holderlin, Kleist, and Nietzsche, each in his own way, were rebels against the established order. They would rather break than yield, uncompromising even at pain of death and annihilation. This makes them superb figures of tragedy — indeed, their whole life is one long tragedy. Goethe conversely (how frankly he understands himself. admits to Zelter that he does not feel himself born to be a tragic dramatist, “for my temperament is conciliatory. ”. A love for extant reality directs Goethes aims (the aims of the anti-daimonic genius) towards security, towards a wise self-preservation. By their contempt for reality the daimonic geniuses are impelled to take gamblers chances, to march towards danger, towards violent self-expansion, ending in self-destruction. In Goethe, all forces work centripetally, moving from the periphery towards the core; in the daimonics the will-to-power operates centrifugally, striving away from the innermost circle of life, inevitably disrupting it. This flight into fathomless space, this over- flow into the formless, is sublimated most conspicuously in a fondness for music. There, where shore and shape are lacking, they can drift unguided into their proper element, so that in decay Holderlin and Nietzsche, and even the harsher-fibered Kleist, gave themselves up to its magic. Understanding is resolved into ecstasy, language into rhythm. Nietzsche, the pastors son, has the courage of Prometheus, nay, the longing of Prometheus to measure his strength against the infinite. A philosopher counts, in my estimation, only in so far as he is able to set an example. A ONE-MAN DRAMA To get the best out of life, you need to live dangerously. The tragedy of Friedrich Nietzsches life was that it hap- pened to be a one-man show, a monodrama wherein no other actor entered upon the stage. As the acts of the play precipitate themselves like an avalanche before our eyes, the solitary fighter stands alone beneath the louring skies of destiny: not a soul is at his side to succour him; no woman is there to soften by her ever-present sympathy the stresses of the atmosphere. Every action takes its birth in him, and its repercussions are felt by him alone. The few figures which, at the outset, creep by in the shadow of his person, accompany his heroic enterprise with gestures of dumb astonishment and fear, soon they glide away and vanish as if faced by some danger. Not one person ventures to enter wholeheartedly into the innermost sanctum of Nietzsches destiny, the poet-philosopher is doomed to speak, to struggle, to suffer alone. He converses with no one, and no one has anything to say to him. What is even more terrible is that none hearken to his voice. In this unique tragedy, Friedrich Nietzsche had neither fellow-actors nor audience, neither stage nor scenery nor costume; the drama ran its course in the spaceless realm of thought. TWOFOLD PORTRAIT Theatrical poses are not consonant with greatness; anyone who feels a need for posturing is false. Beware of those who aim at appearing picturesque! Nietzsche was not a poseur, nor was he represented as a hero during his lifetime. Since his death, many who claim to be his disciples have pictured him as an archetypal hero. Defiant carriage of the head; a lofty brow furrowed with sombre thoughts; thick, wavy hair, clustering down to the strong column of the neck; two falcon eyes beneath bushy eyebrows; every feature of this masterful countenance taut with will-power, health, and strength — such is the portrait usually given of him. Like a second Vercingetorix, he is shown with a heavy moustache falling manfully over the hard-set lips which surmount a prominent chin, and involuntarily the image called up is that of the barbarian warrior, a Viking of the Teutonic North striding forward sword in hand to victory, his hunting-horn slung over his shoulder and a spear within easy reach. It is thus that our sculptors and painters delight in portraying him, a Germanic super- man, a Prometheus bound, hoping thereby to render this great recluse more accessible to men of little faith who, corrupted by school-books and stage presentations, are in- capable of detecting tragedy unless it is draped in theatrical trappings. But genuine tragedy is never theatrical, and the true portrait of Nietzsche is far less picturesque than busts and paintings of him would have us believe. To obtain a real likeness of the man, we need to see him in his actual surroundings. What were they? A dining-room in some modest boarding-house, quarters in an equally modest hotel among the Swiss mountains or on the Italian Riviera; insignificant fellow-boarders, for the most part elderly females, experts in small talk. A gong sounded for the third time and the guests filed in to dinner. One of them was a slouching figure, peering before him as if he had just emerged from a dark cave — for Nietzsche, who was “six- sevenths blind, ” always groped his way when entering a room. His clothes were dark of hue and carefully brushed; his face was gloomy and crowned with a mane of brown hair; his eyes, too, looked melancholy behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. Quietly and even timidly he sought the place reserved for him at the table, and he remained shrouded in an uncanny silence during the meal. One felt that this was a man who dwelt among the shadows, a man beyond the pale of human society and conversation, one who winced at the slightest noise. He would bow courteously to his fellow-guests, wishing them politely “Good day”; and in return his fellow-guests would with equally polite indifference greet “the German professor. ” With the tentative movements of near-sighted persons he would draw his chair up to the board; with the cautiousness of those suffering from a weak digestion, he would examine every dish, ask- ing whether the tea was not perhaps too strong, the food too highly spiced — for an error in diet might cause him days of racking pain. There was never any wine or beer or coffee served where he sat; he smoked neither cigar nor cigarette after meals; allowed himself nothing that would cheery refresh, and relax; kept up a perpetual Lenten abstinence accompanied by a trickle of superficial conversation with a chance neighbour, but when he made the effort to talk it was as if he had not done so for many years, had lost the knack and dreaded lest he be asked too many questions. Immediately the meal was ended he would retire to his room, a typical “chambre garnie, ” exiguous and chilly and dowdy. The table was usually littered with sheets of manuscript, with jottings on scraps of paper, with proofs. Not a flower, not an ornament, hardly a book, seldom a letter would be found. Away in a corner was a heavy and clumsily made wooden trunk — his only possession in addition to a change of underlinen and a second suit. On a shelf were ranged innumerable bottles of tinctures of this, that, and the other medicament to cure headache (to which he was a martyr) colic, spasmodic vomiting, constipation; more numerous than any other drugs in his pharmacopoeia were chloral and veronal, those terrible specifics against insom- nia. A ghastly collection of poisons, the only resources he had to fall back upon in case of need in the dreary silence of his lair, where he knew no other kind of repose than the brief interval of artificially produced sleep. Wrapped in a loose overcoat, a woollen muffler round his throat — for the miserable stove merely smoked when lighted and gave forth no heat — his fingers stiff with cold, two pairs of spectacles on his nose, which almost touched the paper as he wrote, he scribbled for hours at a stretch, scribbled down words which his eyes were hard put to it to decipher when the work was done. These poor eyes burned, and watered with fatigue. One of the rare joys in his life was when a friendly person came along and offered to take down his thoughts from dictation for a couple of hours. On fine days he might take a stroll, but he would in- variably go alone, alone with his thoughts. Never did he encounter a soul to cheer him, never did he have a companion, never did he meet an acquaintance. He hated grey weather, rain, snow which dazzled his eyes; and during such inclement days he would remain a prisoner in his dingy room. He never paid calls, never came into touch with other human beings. Of an evening he supped on a few biscuits and very weak tea, which having swallowed, he would resume his endless communing with his thoughts. Hour after hour sped by in the glare of a spluttering lamp. Then the tension would relax and a welcome lassitude invade him. A gulp of chloral or other soporific, and he would snatch at sleep, at sleep which is the facile boon of those who do not think overmuch and who are not perpetually harassed by the daimons. There were days which he spent entirely in bed, a prey to cramp in the stomach, to nausea, reduced to semi- consciousness by pain, his temples pulsing furiously, his eyes blinded by suffering. No one came near him to place a cooling bandage on his forehead, to read to him, to talk or to laugh. Everywhere he went, the “chambre garnie” was the same. The names of the towns he visited changed from Sorrento to Turin, from Venice to Nice or Marienbad, but the “chambre garnie” remained identical, a rented room, a room totally lacking in any feeling of home, a room filled with dreary, old, worn-out furniture, with a table at which he worked, with a bed upon which he suffered, and with his unalleviated solitude. During all the years of his pilgrimage he never once put up in friendly and cheerful surroundings, never at night felt the warm body of a woman pressing against his j never did the sun rise to see him famous, after a thousand nights of dark and silent labour. How immeasurably vaster was Nietzsches loneliness than is the picturesque highland of Sils-Maria where between luncheon and tea our tourists wander in the hope of capturing some of the glamour that clings to a spot sanctified by his presence. Nietzsches solitude was as wide as the world j it spread over the whole of his life until the very end. If on some rare occasion a stranger dropped in, Nietzsche was no longer able to respond. Fifteen years of solitude had hardened the crust around his heart, so that he felt incapable of being genial and sociable. The anchorite could breathe, assuaged and comfortable, only when his chance visitor had departed! Conversation wearied and irritated him who constantly gnawed at his own vitals and whose hunger for himself, and himself alone, was never satiated. One little ray of brightness came at times to pierce the gloom: music. He would hear Carmen performed in a second-rate theatre at Nice, or catch the lilt of melody in some concert-hall, or spend a few hours at the piano. But this relaxation, too, hurt him, moved him to tears. A pleasure once renounced becomes so lost to him who has forgone it that he can henceforward feel it only as suffering, as something that pains. Nietzsches lonely pilgrimage from one “chambre gar- nie” to another lasted fifteen years. During that time he remained unknown to everyone but himself. He wandered like a wraith in the shadow of great towns, in dusty trains, in various sickrooms, while all around him the vanity fair of the arts and sciences was in full swing. The only other life-journey in the slightest degree comparable is that of Dostoeffsky, who during the almost identical period was experiencing similar poverty and oblivion. In both cases alike the work of a titan masks the sepulchral figure of a Lazarus who dies daily from his poverty and his sores, and who daily rises from the tomb through the saving miracle of his own creative will. Every day, for fifteen years, Nietzsche rose from the grave which was his lodging-house room, to go back to it anon, lapsing from torture to torture, from one death to another, from one resurrection to an- other, until in the end his brain, overheated in the furnace of his energies, was shattered. Strangers found him, the man who was so great a stranger to his own epoch, lying in a street at Turin. They conveyed him to a strange room in the Via Carlo Alberto. None witnessed the death of his mind. His intellectual end is shrouded in obscurity, in a saintly isolation. Solitary and un- known, the most lucid genius of the epoch was precipitated into the night of his own soul. APOLOGIA FOR ILLNESS. That which does not kill me strengthens me Nietzsches body was afflicted with so many and varied tribulations that in the end he could with perfect truth declare: “At every age of my life, suffering, monstrous suffering, was my lot. ” Headaches so ferocious that all he could do was to collapse onto a couch and groan in agony, stomach troubles culminating in cramps when he would vomit blood, migrainous conditions of every sort, fevers, loss of appetite, exhaustion, haemorrhoids, intestinal stasis, rigours, night-sweats — a gruesome enumeration, indeed. Added to these was the fact that he was nearly blind, that after the smallest strain his eyes would swell and water so that he should not have imposed on them more than one and a half hours of work a day. Ignoring such precautionary measures, he would spend ten hours at a stretch over his writing-table. But his brain took revenge for this excess; cephalalgia was the result. His nervous tension would at such times be so extreme that it was impossible for him to relax. Though his body was wearied to exhaustion he could not sleep. Unless he forced matters by a dose of veronal or the like, his mind persisted in elaborating thoughts and visions j and to bring about this urgently needed rest, increasingly massive doses of the hypnotic had to be absorbed (in two months Nietzsche consumed as many ounces of chloral hydrate. The stomach would then rebel, and the vicious circle would start anew — vomiting, headaches, and so forth, to which fresh remedies had to be applied. His bodily organs were a battlefield, reacting upon one another to their common disadvantage. Without let or pause his sufferings were a daily martyrdom; he was never allowed a month of contentment during which to forget himself and his miseries. In all his correspondence there are barely a dozen letters in which a groan or a cry of lamentation does' not go up from every page. Goaded to despair by his sensitive nerves, he wrote: Lighten the burden of your fate: die! ” Or, again: “A pistol is for me now a source of relatively pleasant thoughts. ” And yet again: “This terrible and almost unceasing martyrdom makes me yearn for the end; and, judging by certain indications, I fancy the brain- storm that will free me is near at hand. ” THE DON JUAN OF THE INTELLECTUAL WORLD What is of genuine importance is eternal vitality, not eternal life. PASSION FOR SINCERITY One commandment suffices thee: Be sincere. TRANSFORMATIONS IN SEARCH OF THE TRUE SELF A snake which cannot slough its skin is doomed to perish. So likewise, a mind which is prevented from changing its opinions ceases to be a mind. DISCOVERY OF THE SOUTH We need the South at any price; we need limpid, innocent, joyous, happy, intonations. FLIGHT INTO MUSIC Come to me, cheerfulness, you golden one! Precisely because he had pent up these primal springs of his nature for so long behind the dams of philology, erudition, and indifference, did they gush forth so vehemently and penetrate into every crevice, irradiating and liquefying his literary style. It was as if his tongue, which had hitherto sought to explain tangible things, had suddenly refused its allotted task and insisted upon expressing itself in terms of music. The andante maestoso of his earlier works changed into a sinuous and flexible movement possessing the qualities of a genuinely musical idiom. The delicacies of touch we expect from a master of the art are there for the seeking: the crisp staccati of the aphorisms, the mezza voce of the hymns, the pizzicati of his mockery, the daring harmonization of his prose and his maxims. Even his punctuation — unspoken speech — his dashes, his italics, could find equivalents in the terminology of the elements of music. His German reads like an orchestral score, a prose sometimes written for a small band of players and at other times for a considerable company. An artist in language finds as much delight in the study of Nietzsches polyphony as a musician in examining the score of a master composer. Numerous are the harmonies dissembled among the intentional discords and limpid, indeed, is the spirit hidden behind the rich facade of tumultuous and disorderly words. The details of each work are vibrant with music, and the works as a whole read like symphonies. They no longer belong to the realm of architecture, of intellectualized and objective creations, but are the direct outcome of musical inspiration. Of Thus Spake Zarathustra he himself says that it was written “in the spirit of the first phrase of the Ninth Symphony. ” And how better can I describe the opening of Ecce Homo than as a magnificent organ prelude destined to be played in some vast cathedral? “Song of the Night” and “Gondoliers Chanty” resemble the croonings of primitive men in the midst of an infinite solitude. When was his inspiration more joyous and dancing, more heroic, more like a lilting cadence of the Grecian music of antiquity, than in the paean indicted during his ultimate outburst of happiness, in the Dionysian rhapsody? Illuminated from on high by the pellucid skies of the South, soaked from beneath by the waters of music, his language became as it were a wave, restless and immense, and in this elemental sea Nietzsche was henceforward to live and labour until the whirlpool sucked him under and destroyed him. Intellectual activity having become intoxication, he no longer needed to be intoxicated; but music must bring him “holy sobriety, ” as Holderlin so happily phrased it. “Music as a recuperation not as a stimulant, ” music as a refuge when his heart was lacerated or when the chase after ideas had overwhelmed him with weariness, music as a refreshing and cleansing bath, divine music descending from on high and not arising from a heart aflame, oppressed, and filled with a sultry atmosphere; a music which would help him to forget himself, not one which would thrust him back upon his own emotional crises; a music which would speak and act affirmatively - a music of the South, limpid as water, simple and pure; a music “any man could whistle. ” Not the sort of music which lay dormant within himself, the music of chaos, but the music of the seventh day of creation; a music of repose wherein the spheres serenely sing the praises of the Creator. “Now that I have reached a haven, give me music, and more music! ” The lightness of thistledown, this was Nietzsches ultimate love, his highest measure of things. That which imparts buoyancy and health is good, whether it be food for the body or the mind, whether it be in the air, in the sun, in the landscape, or in music. That which enables a man to soar, which helps him to forget the weight and gloominess of life, the ugliness of truth — that is the wellspring of grace. On such a soil was nourished Nietzsches belated love for art, a stimulant to life because it made life worth while. Music, limpid, freedom-giving, and light, became the dearest solace of Nietzsches agitated mind. “Life without music is nothing but fatigue and error. ” A person sick of a fever never stretched his cracked and burning lips towards a cup of cooling water with greater longing than, in his final crises, did Nietzsche towards the sparkling draught of music. “Was a man ever so athirst for music as I? ” This was his final escape, escape from himself. In view of this craving, we can have no difficulty in ex- plaining his apocalyptic hatred for Wagner, whose art troubled the purity of the stream of music by pouring narcotics and stimulants into its crystalline waters; hence, like- wise, the sufferings he endured when contemplating “the destiny of music, ” it seemed to him “an open wound. ” He, the solitary wanderer cast out by the gods desired only that they should not rob him of this one consolation, this nectar, this ambrosia which eternally refreshed and reinvigorated the soul. “Art, nothing but art! Art was given us that we might not be slain by truth. ” With the desperate energy of a drowning man he clung to art, to the only living power which is not subject to the laws of gravitation, hoping that this spar would save him and would bring him happily into port. THE SEVENTH SOLITUDE A great man is pushed and hustled and martyrized until he withdraws into solitude “O solitude, you are my home! ” Such is the melancholy chant which issued from an icy world of silence. Zarathustra composed his evening song, the song of his home-coming. Has not solitude always been the dwelling-place of the wanderer, his cold hearth, his stony shelter? Nietzsche lived in many different towns; he travelled into countless realms of the mind; frequently he endeavoured to escape from solitude by crossing a frontier into a foreign land; but always his journeyings brought him back to solitude, heart- sore, weary, disillusioned. During her constant roaming with this man of many transformations, she herself suffered a change, so that when he looked her in the face he was alarmed, for she had be- come so like himself in the course of these peregrinations, harder, crueller, more violent; she had learned to make another suffer and had grown threatening. Though he still continued to call her his “dear old solitude, ” the affectionate familiarity seemed out of season; his solitude had become complete isolation, the final, the seventh, solitude, wherein one is not merely alone but also forsaken. Nietzsches books alienated even his friends; each successive issue cost him the affection of some person who was dear to him. Little by little all interest in him and his writings was extinguished. The first to desert Nietzsche were his professorial colleagues, then Wagner and the Wagnerian coterie, then the companions of his youth. In Germany no publisher would any longer accept his manuscripts. During his twenty years of production, his manuscripts accumulated in a cellar and came to weigh many hundredweight. He had to draw upon his own slender resources in order to get his books printed. Not only did nobody buy the few volumes that were issued, but he found no readers when he gave them away. The fourth part of Thus Spake Zarathustra was printed at Nietzsches expense in forty copies only, and he intended to distribute them among his friends. But he could muster only seven people to whom to send the gift. Is not this sufficient proof of the mans loneliness? In order not to forfeit the friendship of Overbeck, the last remaining intimate of youthful days, he wrote apologetically: “Dear old friend, please read the book from beginning to end, and pray do not allow it to disturb you or alienate you. Summon all your kindness in my favour. If the work as a whole is intolerable to you, maybe you will yet find a hundred details to your liking. ” Thus humbly did the greatest mind of the century petition his contemporaries to consider the greatest book of the epoch; and the finest thing he could say of his most intimate friendship was that nothing had been able to disturb it, “not even Zarathustra” Not even Zarathustra! So heavy a burden, so distressing an ordeal had Nietzsches creative work become for his nearest and dearest, so vast was the chasm between this mans genius and the pettiness of the time. More and more did the air he breathed become too rarefied, too soundless, too emptied of commonplace interests, to be respirable by others. DANCE OVER THE ABYSS If you look long into an abyss, the abyss, likewise, looks into you. The autumn of 1888, the period of Nietzsches last creative outburst, is unique in the annals of productive artistry. Never before, in so brief a period, did any man of genius think so intensely, so uninterruptedly, so stupendously, and in so revolutionary a fashion. Never before had mortal brain been so fertile in ideas, so full of imagery, so flooded with music, as this brain whose doom was already decreed. The history of the mind offers no parallel for such an intoxication of destructive ecstasy conjoined with such a fury of creation — THE TEACHER OF FREEDOM Greatness means, to give guidance. “After the next European war, people will understand me. ” Such is the prophetic utterance that shines conspicuously forth from among Nietzsches last writings. In very truth, the real significance, the historical necessity of this seer is made plain to us only in relation to the tensed, un- stable, and dangerous condition of our world at the turn of the century. In this sensitive, who transformed every atmospheric convulsion from nerve into spirit, from intimation into word, there occurred a foreboding discharge of all the tensions of the morally obtuse Europe. There was a cataclysm in Nietzsches mind as a presage of the most terrible cataclysm in human history. His “far- thinking” vision glimpsed the crises while others were comfortably warming their hands before the agreeable fires of well-turned phrases. He discerned the causes of what was about to happen: “The national cardiac pruritus and the blood-poisoning thanks to which, throughout Eu- rope, nation shuts itself off from nation as if they were quarantining against one anothers plagues. ” He saw “the nationalism as of horned cattle, ” of brute beasts whose highest conception was selfishness based upon a narrow interpretation of history, what time the impetus of all the forces in the making was already urging upon them a new and more sublime synthesis. Wrathfully he predicts catastrophe in view of the convulsive endeavours “to eternalize particularism throughout Europe” and to defend a morality established upon egoistic interests and upon business. In letters of fire upon the wall he wrote: “This absurd state of affairs must speedily be brought to an end; we are skating upon very thin ice, and the warm breeze of a thaw is blowing. ” No one heard more plainly than did Nietzsche the ominous cracking in the edifice of European society; no one, in a time of unwarranted optimism and self-satisfaction, sounded so loudly as he the summons to flight — a flight into straightforwardness, into clarity, into the utmost intellectual freedom. No one felt so strongly as he that the old order was decayed and done with, and that, amid death-dealing crises, a new and mighty order was about to begin. Now at length we know it, as he knew it decades ago. Such agonizing foresight was his greatness and his hero- ism. The incredible stresses which ultimately shattered his anguished mind linked him with a higher element; it was the fever of our world before the abscess burst. Stormy petrels invariably herald momentous convulsions and catastrophes; and there is a spiritual truth underlying the belief of simple souls that before wars and crises comets pursue their erratic course athwart the sky. Nietzsche was such a beacon in the upper atmosphere, the summer lightning that preludes a storm, the rumbling we hear from distant mountains before the thunder bursts in the valleys. He alone recognized how frightful a hurricane was about to disturb our civilization. But it is the perennial tragedy of the spirit that what it perceives in its higher, more luminous spheres can never be communicated to those who dwell in the heavier atmosphere upon the lower levels; that the present never grasps what is impending, is never able to read the message of the skies. Even the most translucent genius of the nineteenth century could not speak plainly enough to enable his con- temporaries to understand him. No more was vouchsafed to him than the cry of warning which was incomprehensible to his contemporaries. Nietzsches independence did not therefore transmit, as the scholiasts declare, a doctrine, but, rather, an atmosphere — the limpid and passionate atmosphere of a daimonic nature, which finds vent in storm and destruction. When we open his books we encounter ozone-laden air, an element freed from dross, from nebulousness and sultriness, that which we breathe is fit only for strong hearts and emancipated spirits. Freedom is Nietzsches ultimate significance, is the meaning of his life and the meaning of his overthrow. Just as, in the domain of natural forces, there is need at times for whirlwinds wherein the excess of energy rises in revolt against stability, so like- wise, now and again, in the realm of mind is there need for a daimonic being whose transcendent powers shall make him the spearhead of a revolt against the triviality of habitual thought and the monotonousness of conventional morality. There is need of a man who will embody the forces of destruction and who will destroy himself like- wise. But these heroic disturbers of the peace are sculptors of the universe no less than are those whose creative work is done silently and without the raising of a riot. These latter, doubtless, manifest the plenitude of life, but the destroyers show its immensity. It is through a study of tragical natures that we become aware of profundity of feeling. Only because there are some whom no yardstick can measure do the rest of us realize our own possibilities of greatness.
Streaming a hidden life book.
There's one big problem with the whole theory that the 'Ruth' Doctor is from the Doctor's past that I haven't seen anyone bringing up so far, and it relates to "The Name of the Doctor. Surely when Clara went back through the Doctor's personal time stream she would have encountered the 'Ruth' Doctor if she was from the past (pre-Eleven. She was scattered through his entire life, supposedly back to his birth, and even saw/found/met the War Doctor who the Doctor himself tried to hide, and was hidden behind the Time Lock around the Time War. Even if we go with the theory that the Doctor had been mind-wiped so as not to remember the Ruth incarnation, that doesn't explain why Clara wouldn't have met the Ruth incarnation, as the Ruth incarnation was still very much a part of the Doctor's past. If the Ruth Incarnation was in the future it could make sense, as Clara never encountered the Twelfth or Thirteenth Doctors, but that was because she entered the Doctor's Time Stream during the Eleventh Doctor's life and travelled back through his entire life and all previous incarnations. So this means one of four possibilities in my opinion: She's a future Doctor. She's an alternate Doctor and Chibnall is lying. She's not really the Doctor at all (Or at least some spinoff like the Valeyard, the Watcher or the Meta-Crisis/Corin Doctor. This is a significant plothole which seems like it will be extremely difficult to patch.
Just back from cinema. That movies was amazing! Never thought Adam Sandler had that sort of performance in him.

Streaming a hidden life insurance. A Hidden Life, written and directed by Terrence Malick is yet another marvelous gem in this unforgettable year in cinematic achievements. However, this statement wouldn't be fair for this particular movie, as its without a doubt one of the best in the 20 years of the 21st century. Malick is an extremely unique and visionary director, a deduction that can be quickly made even after watching only one of his pictures. I have seen only two, this and Tree of Life. Tree of life is also hailed by critics as one of the greatest achievements in this century, but that was not apparent to me when I watched it on my small laptop screen in 2012; So it must be mentioned that Malick's style is meditative and poetic, something that can feel like an extremely challenging yoga class, its slow, can be "boring" yet to some who adore it, can be the favorite training style. However, there are two specific differences that must be made regarding this particular picture. First, the story is more concise and focused. Few tangible characters in a limited life span with a particular story and very well specified impacts and messages; this (along with flawless performances and mesmerizing cinematography) made this 3 hours picture much more captivating, especially in comparison with the longest this year, the Irishman (yep, it was too long to me. Secondly, A Hidden Life is an important human story that by itself is a much-needed testament about the unsung heroes of history.
A Hidden life is an epic, its very hard to justly praise its alluring cinematography, genius editing, intimate storytelling, heavy monologues, and its impeccable performances. Much can be said and studied but will focus here (especially for personal attachments) to the story itself.
The film follows the life of an Austrian farmer that defiantly chose not to be forced to join the Nazi army during WWII. It follows the simple yet precious life that he had with his loving wife, his beautiful 3 little girls, their wheat fields, their barns and farms and cattle in the heaven-like Austrian countryside, their small warm house, and the cherished memories of their lives. Malick undeniably was intensely passionate about drawing the life that was. Yes, there were the hardships of the farmer's life, but (specifically the first act) didn't leave anything up its sleeves in portraying the warmness and the wholesomeness of this life. The clear cut contrast between the heavenly old days and horrors of what comes after is a dangerous tool if handled by immatures, as it can easily be drawn in a tedious and pretentious sea of melodrama. But in the hands of an experienced poet such as Terrence Malick, here, this contrast is nothing short of enchanting. This creates an extreme in the emotional, which highlights the endless sacrifices and their holiness; sacrifices that the farmer had to make so he can hold onto his humanity and identity.
The second act excruciatingly draws the evading Nazi Germany into this farmer's peaceful little village. Malick tells the stories of the physical and ideological occupation of Nazism. Soldiers wander within the village taking volunteers and ensuring their constant presence, and with that, the notions of national socialism start to make their ways into the minds of everyone surrounding the farmer. Malick goes the extra mile with his emotional realism in affirming that people didn't show embracement of Nazi ideology, but were chained with the fear of tyranny, which enslaved them and tore out their sanities. This act throws the farmer and his family in a sea of discrimination and evil that creates utter solitude stretching his adamant decision not to join the army to the extreme. He finally yields and intends to join as a medical asset to avoid participation in the killing, but one thing stands in his path, which is the imposed pledge of allegiance to Hitler, which he considers as the ultimate abandonment of what makes him free.
The third act, the most terrifying and torturing, acts as the utter darkness of life after the farmer's separation from his family. It follows the physical and physiological torment of imprisonment of the farmer as he was considered a "traitor" and the social isolation that surrounded the wife along with this act's more apparent hardships of the village life. This is the longest act in the film and has particular parts that absolutely broke me personally and brought me back to memories that actually should not be forgotten. As I was protesting against the Syrian regime, I was (as millions of Syrians) imprisoned. It was less than a month, during which some but not much affected me physically. However, two particular memories came back to me while watching the third act, one of the "ceremony of greeting" to the prison (which is basically to be severely hit and humiliated by tens of soldiers along your long slow path to your cell) especially when the movie used what can be described as virtual reality scene where the viewer was made to be the one who is receiving the punches and the kicks of the ruthless prison torturer. The second memory elevated this movie for me to a new level, which is of an imprisoned defected soldier who was bleeding after his long torture session, and his screams. In Syria, thousands of soldiers had defected the regime's army after it started shooting at demonstrators killing tens of thousands of them. These soldiers and their stories are not as documented or known as the other tragedies in my country, because the regime made it a quest to silently eliminate these cracks in its steely structure. The few known stories resemble the zenith of human bravery and goodness that can ever be imagined, and they are hidden from us. Thus, I finally understood the title of the movie, A Hidden life, not of the farmer's from his surroundings, but from the recorded history, and us.
A certain element that threw me off for a while was the messiah complex leitmotif. The movie focused for a while on the pure Christian spirituality of the farmer and his wife, but also highlighted the inevitable doubt that can wrap the heart and shake the beliefs even of the most devoted theists in such an environment. In my opinion that was an essential part of this emotional story, but what I am hesitant in embracing is that the farmer was portrayed by others (and maybe by Malick himself) as a parallel to Jesus's biblical story, which is undoubtedly the richest and the most emotional, and it might be justified in such a theme, but there is a certain addiction to it that I didn't appreciate, however, it remains as a small and easily negligible part of this magical picture.
A Hidden Life tells a story with an obvious end, but the little details are what matter because they enlighten the weight of the sacrifice on one hand, and attache it to the very meaning of humanity in the other. Malick is saying as we all should that this hidden life simply shouldn't be hidden, it should be known and celebrated and followed, it's a debt that must be repaid to those who endured it, and a promise that we need to keep to ourselves as a whole species. A hidden life is a true story, in particular with this farmer, and generally with millions of others throughout the human history of battles against tyranny, thus, Malick's picture is nothing short of one of the most important pieces of art, that must be sought and experienced by everyone.
"The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. George Eliot.

Streaming A Hidden life and times. Streaming A Hidden life 2. Beautiful cinematography. Spot on felt so real and interesting, great performances all round aswell. A hidden life 2019 streaming. Streaming A Hidden life insurance. Streaming A Hidden life story. Let's hope he's a good boy. Why do I feel like this is The Fault in Our Stars + A Star is Born + A Walk to Remember + The Choice fused into one. 52 total views Info Playlist Chat Poll views Chapters Highlights Thank you for taking our poll! Sorry, the poll has ended 1 videos ( 60. 091) A Hidden Life full ＭOＶＩＥ [ FULL NEW HD] 4K♜「ONLINE 」 December 8, 2019 Videos Playlists Privacy Search for videos Cancel of A Hidden Life Full✷♞~M. O. V. I. E (2019. Comingsoon OFF AIR A Hidden Life full ＭOＶＩＥ [ FULL NEW HD] 4K♜「ONLINE 」 1 month ago 52 views 1 videos A HIDDEN LIFE ♝ ( Coming SOON) FULL✫HDRIP✸MOVIE Playlist ( 60. 091) No privacy policy was made available to date...

Streaming A Hidden life style.

 

 

Streaming A Hidden life music. A hidden life streaming. Streaming a hidden lifetime. Hello. Below is a post I meant as a reply to a different thread, but fashioned into being my, more or less, comprehensive opinion on Reforged. It's a lot of text, and it's just my, some random person's, unfiltered opinions, but thank you anyone who takes the time to read it. The new art is by all means awful. When you factor in what it's supposed to replace, it is beyond awful. The classic team should not have changed the art direction of the original game with whatever "vision" they had. If they are going to outsource to a studio, worked on by people who do not necessarily know or play the game, you cannot expect to recreate the work and knowledge that exists in the original game. They should only have asked for the original models to be done in a "higher resolution. so to speak. The original models are skillfully made so even though they may lack detail, the intent of every model is very clear and it should be possible to recreate them but with a bigger polygon count and higher resolution textures. They have exaggerated proportions, vibrant colors, and an infinite amount of information stored in their designs and animations to make the game feel good and play well. This was an iterative process back during the development of the game and a lot of trial and error went into the art. Knowledge was amassed, and subsequently dismissed in Reforged. I would personally complain even if the game did still play as well as it originally did. From tiny things like adding those weird sandals to the Blademaster, present neither in the original concept art by Samwise Didier, nor the old in-game model, and as far as I know, worn by no Samurai in history, to adding disgusting untrimmed beards to every single orc unit giving no unit in the orc race a sense of identity, the new look is riddled with creative decisions that come from seemingly nowhere and are bad. The quality of animations are also a mockery of what the original is. Take the burrow animation of Crypt Fiends for example: The Fiend dives into a hole that is just suddenly there. The animation itself also feels sluggish. In the original animation, the Fiend visibly digs itself into the ground. It looks natural, and while neither make much sense, you are able to suspend your disbelief for it. It's incredibly satisfying to burrow a Fiend to escape an Ensnare, or burrow your low hit-point Fiends in quick succession to then Teleport away and unburrow them at the last second. Animations like this matter. But trying to play this game is like someone made a minigame out of the expression "find a needle in a haystack. and put it inside an already extremely difficult and competitive RTS. Blizzard were the masters of isometric. Before Warcraft 3, they already had experience with reading visual information from a top-down perspective. Diablo, Warcraft 1 and 2, Starcraft and BW. With BW, they had learned how to make competitive fast-paced games from this unique perspective. When it came time to make their first 3D game, they were, however, faced with new challenges. 3D games were predominantly in first-person or third-person perspectives at the time. Blizzard had to create a new engine from the ground-up and create assets for this engine that would not only look good but be able to be played in the same fast-paced and competitive manner as BW. Effectively, by the release of Warcraft 3, Blizzard had solved the riddle of the top-down camera in 3D. Having previously solved it in 2D, some of the knowledge was carried over: Tactile selection circles and mouse cursors, responsive right-clicking and unrivaled sound design. Almost every action you make gives you feedback in an expressive audiovisual manner. Most impressive of all, however, was the new 3D art. A selection circle so greatly represents the unit, even though it exists in 2D space and the model of the unit in 3D space. The grid, in 2D space, feels visible at all times, even though you are controlling units, in 3D space, on it. It is effortless to select a unit. It is effortless to control the unit along the grid. Combined with control groups and hero selection, controlling an army is like conducting a symphony. You give your army direction and they play for you. Warcraft 3, however, is not only about moving your army from point A to point B. The game is about fighting a human opponent, who will act and react, prompting the same of you, in real-time. There are battles, big and small, and with the game being centered around heroes, every such battle requires tiny little actions to be performed on almost every individual unit in your army. Whether to move a hurt unit away, to make sure every attack-type is on the right armor-type, to cast spells and use abilities, and to pivot the army effectively using your heroes. Every single unit model was carefully made to make this gameplay possible. Every single effect of every single spell and every sound the game makes had thought put into it. There is a good general writeup of the importance of the art style here, better than anything I would write: It was this invention, this engine and art, that enabled Tower Defense and countless other genres to flourish within it. Had Dota not had the same level of gameplay fluency as Warcraft 3, it would not have become as popular as it did. To this day, remnants of Warcraft 3 are visible in all MOBAs. Obviously, this is all rather incidental, and those games succeeded through being well designed. Undeniably, however, Warcraft 3 changed the course of history by doing it first. MOBAs are birthed from the ability to have a fast-paced competitive game from a top-down perspective. The custom game scene was a primordial soup of experiments with this unique camera angle and it was inevitable something so successful would arise from it. It doesn't end there. Blizzard were not making chess either. If they were, solving this problem would be easy: They would have made every unit a basic geometric shape, and the game would be as readable as anything else. Blizzard were making a fantasy game, the third installment in their emerging Warcraft franchise, and the game had to be fun and immersive just like the first two. Each race was given an identity. Humans: Intelligent creatures capable of forming advanced civilizations. Great builders. Intelligence allows them to form strong alliances. Greedy; need to be, using gold to pay for their armies made up of steel armor and weapons and other technology. Orcs: The human beings of the games. Them entering Azeroth is paralleled with the player. Strong human emotions and values. Unlike humans, however, they are strong physically, with a beastly appearance. Their physical strength allows them to use brute force in battle without needing the expensive and advanced technology of Humans. Often misunderstood. It's no coincidence they symbolize the entire franchise. Undead: From vampires, ghouls, gargoyles and necromancers to nerubians, scarabs, Necropolises and sphinxes, they are an aesthetic blend of gothic horror and ancient Egypt. They themselves are as mysterious as this fusion; rather than weapons, they rely on strong magic in battle. Cultists and mindless creatures power their forces, so they seemingly have little use for gold, and are able to use corpses for resources much the same as gold. Night Elves: Elusive creatures of the night, even less is known about them than the Undead. Ancient beings. They are as ancient as nature herself and use their strong relationship with her in battle. Their workers, unassuming, are their life force, and represent their power as a whole. They don't build buildings, they employ the help of the Ancients. Amazingly, these identities translate almost completely to gameplay. Humans: Strong alliances mean versatile armies. Great builders, also known as fast building, they can set up bases and defenses in an instant. And they need to: Physically weak, they must establish a strong economy (fast expand) in almost every game in order to power the technology and armor needed to eventually do battle with their naturally better equipped opponents. Orcs: They don't have the same need for a strong economy as Humans. Their physical strength means most of their army is melee-based. At direct contrast to Humans, they are able to take down a base in an instant while setting one up takes time. Base-trade and lock-down is their game, reflecting their primitive technology compared to Humans. To understand this dynamic between the two, all you have to do is look at the box art for the original Warcraft. Undead: The most powerful heroes in the game. Relying on them and their powerful magic, they have the least amount of need out of all four races for economy. Their gameplay is defined by efficient use of their one-base playstyle. Most of the gothic horror aspect is lost in pro-play, instead an Undead army is focus-fire based due to the strength of Fiends and the Orb of Corruption, but a casual player can easily put on the Rondo of Blood soundtrack and play Dreadlord for fun on ladder. Their single base, the "city of the dead. is the best fortified base out of all four races. It looks alien and uninviting and this is reflected in gameplay. Night Elves: Their wisps' detonate ability does damage to summons (dispel and drains mana) which is a pivotal story element in the RoC campaign. This ability is crucial to gameplay, and pulling out wisps for a mass-detonate attack can change the course of a game. Their buildings, living beings, give them the unique benefits of creeping with them, setting up expansions in safe places while they are their most vulnerable and then walking them over, and giving them a well fortified base. With less powerful heroes and forces, their relationship with nature is what gives them the edge over the other races. This results in an amazing gameplay experience. Once you pick a race, you start to feel a bond with it. Most players probably settle on a race based on what they like thematically more than anything else. These strong ties to race are brought to extremes as players regularly fight one another over race. When you lose to a specific race, it's common to harbor a dislike for the entire race and other players who play it, not just that one individual player and game you lost. This phenomenon is unique to RTS and Warcraft 3 must be the strongest example of it. Achieving this relationship between art direction, art, story, sound, and gameplay, was done by very talented and creative people 20 years ago. I could pick apart the new graphics for days on end because how do you replicate a masterpiece? The answer is that you don't. Regardless of the fact that they were brainlessly outsourced, this was a remaster, not Warcraft 4. There were no grounds to deviate like this in the first place. It could've still been very much re-imagined without changing the art style: Improved campaign, cutscenes, and bringing the game to modernity with new online features with an improved ladder and better support for pro-play. There's your Reforged! Everything I've just described in this post is lost in the new graphics. The game reads horribly to the point of being unplayable and the identities of the races are completely lost. The new icons aren't worth going into. They're not icons, they're downscaled pictures of the most random things. Picture the Monty Python sketch of the "funniest joke in the world" that, if told to you, you die from laughter. That's a graphic designer reacting to these icons. They're mass produced. Some are posed models, some are traces of the original icons and some are in a digital-drawing style. The icon for Unstable Concoction has a 3D troll hand with lighting effects, while the icon for Spirit Link, depicting the same thing, has a troll hand in a digital-drawn style. Icons for units are like browsing through the Games category on Google Play. Everyone has that Clash of Clans dumbass angry look on them. Simply put, the icons are by far the most disgraceful things in this whole remaster. They made changes to the graphics engine to accommodate the new art. They dug up the old code and thought they could modernize it. The result is a Frankenstein engine that, disappointing as the new art is, manages to make it look even worse. Plastic portraits, terrible lighting that make the game painful to look at, visual bugs, broken animations, the list goes on. The colors aren't just washed out, they're weird. Everything has this alien color palette to it. It's very hard to describe, and I'm sure the software developers behind the engine upgrades couldn't tell you what's wrong with it either. It has become a health risk for me to play and watch Reforged. This is just me, I guess, as I have always had sensitive eyes, but my eyes physically hurt after ~2 hours or more of continued play. It's a distinct feeling I get in the back of my eyes, kind of like running a fever, that only happens after exactly 1-2 hours of looking at Reforged. It happened to me during the beta twice (I played the beta twice) and just yesterday I watched a Reforged stream for the same duration and it had the same effect. No other video game, old or new, has made me feel like this. I can't even watch B2W anymore. Woe is me I guess. So, it might be obvious to you by now that I will probably be playing with the classic graphics. Unfortunately, however, it's not that simple. From a technical standpoint, the "classic graphics" are not, and never will be, the original graphics. The changes they made to the graphics engine to support the new graphics were made first, then they slapped the old model assets in it and called it a day. It's the classic model files being rendered in a completely different engine. The differences are staggering, some make the classic graphics just as unreadable and difficult to play with as the new graphics, some just make it look plain worse. A lessened experience from the original. This can not be fixed one-by-one as everything has fundamentally changed. The developers don't seem to really care about fidelity or quality either. I have already touched on this subject before, you can hear me talk about it in this highlight: I might make a similar post to this trying to explain the intimate problems with the classic graphics more cohesively. For now, that highlight is the best I have. One of the most blatant things I forgot to touch on in the stream is how a blue color now appears on your spells when you use them. Why? Because they added a feature to show numbers for cooldowns and couldn't figure out a way for this number to be readable on the many different icons without making them entirely blue while it was there. When you disable this feature, your spells still turn blue. The developers, who I assume must not have played a single game of Warcraft 3, do not realize how distracting this is. I have used my Death Coil or manually cast my Obsidian Statues' spells and had a mini-panic over suddenly thinking I'm oom. That's right, blue is the color to indicate being out of mana, in case you didn't know. It's just distracting in general. They also added a visible clock-hand to the cooldown indicator which looks worse than just the simple transparency effect it used to be. I think they may have done this because the new icons are so abhorrently designed a simple transparency effect didn't read well enough. What it comes down to is that classic graphics get the short end of the stick because of changes they had to make for these terrible new graphics. You cannot simply patch this. The engine changed. I can not play this game. Not with the new graphics, not with the "classic" graphics. The other assortment of issues with Reforged I never really cared about. Those are technical issues, issues that can be iterated on and fixed. It's criminal to release the game without hidden MMR, I thought these types of things were standard practice. You release a game without ranked, but slap on some MMR both to give players a better experience early on and calibrate everyone's ranking for when it eventually comes. Yet, eventually, there will be a ladder again. It's criminal to release the game without any new QoL features, most of which already exist on platforms like Netease, and most of which are already implemented in SC2. What users wanted, and technical implementations for reference, were already there. Not just that, but there has been a significant net loss of these types of features. Yet, eventually, they must intend to add them. It's criminal to release a bug-ridden game with all the polish of basalt. Yet, eventually, they must fix these. Criminal, yes, hopeless, no. The changes made to the graphics and sound, however, are fundamentally flawed. They are the bad taste and incompetence of the team made manifest and while all those issues above can be quantified and pointed out in clear terms, these can not. The solution to them is "start over. and, as everyone likes to point out, the budget for this project is not there and that will never happen. I'm not a doom sayer. I started playing Warcraft 3 competitively a little over a year ago. All of my thoughts and opinions I've gone over in this post were accumulated over this time. I recognize how well made the game is by what it is, not my glorified memories of it. I came from Overwatch to play this game, looking for a competitive 1v1 experience, having become sick of team-based games. 1v1 is an underrepresented mode in esports and over time, my admiration for this game really started to make me think it could be something. Warcraft 3 never got a chance to compete in today's environment of esports, as in fact this environment is in part shaped by it. I asked myself the question: How would it fare if it had a second chance? When they announced Reforged, I thought this question would be answered. I was ecstatic and hopeful, and despite the hectic development I retained hope for a long time. Then they butchered the classic graphics. That was the one thing they could not mess up, and they messed it up. A triumph of human incompetence, stupidity and bad decisions, contrasted with a triumph of talent and wisdom. Reforged, the "upgrade" in a vacuum, the incremental changes made to the original code and assets, is like pouring ketchup on a slice of white bread and saying "bon appetit. It's a disgrace.

Streaming a hidden life cycle. I dont know why, but at 1:43 when the lyrics are “I still believe in Your Holy Word.” It just pulls on my heart strings. 💙. Imagen his parents were Mexican lol this movie wouldn't exist😂. Streaming A Hidden life. Streaming A Hidden life rocks. So this isn't a prequel to cats vs dogs. August Diehl in the film A HIDDEN LIFE. Photo by Reiner Bajo. 2019 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation All Rights Reserved A Hidden Life is the story of an unsung hero of World War II Austria. Will you be able to stream it on Amazon Prime Video in the future? What was it like for those who opposed the Nazi Party in World War II Austria? What would have happened to a family? Thats something  A Hidden Life shows you, as we walk through the life of an unsung hero of the time. Most people would have joined the Nazi Party, turning a blind eye to the atrocities. Weve seen it with  The Man in the High Castle, with those who werent affected turning against their friends to keep their family safe. But  A Hidden Life tells the tale of Franz Jägerstätter, an Austrian farmer who refused to swear allegiance to Hitler, despite knowing that it would mean imprisonment and death. If youre not ready to see such a movie in the theaters but know you want to see it in the future, youre likely looking for it to come to a streaming service. I get that these movies arent always the ones that you can face with others around. But will  A Hidden Life come to Amazon Prime Video to stream? Sadly, as a 20th Century FOX movie, you wont get it with your Prime membership for free. The movies head to HBO. There is some good news as a Prime member, though. Its possible to grab an HBO membership through Amazon Channels, so youll be able to stream the movie once it arrives. It can often take six to eight months for movies to head from theaters to streaming. If you want it sooner, Id recommend looking out for  A Hidden Life on DVD or even on Amazon Video to purchase. Critics and audiences recommend the movie. On  Rotten Tomatoes, it holds a 79% score from the critics and 90% score from the audience. Check out the trailer for  A Hidden Life below: What do you think of  A Hidden Life? What are you waiting to come to Amazon Prime Video or another streaming service? Share your thoughts in the comments below. A Hidden Life is currently in theaters.

Terrence Malick, I salute you. Archetypal Love. Streaming A Hidden lifestyle. A/N: Hoo boy, this was a long one! But I hope it's a worthy payoff for a couple parts of buildup. As always, let me know what you think and enjoy~ Part 5. 5 Alak sat back in his chair and sighed, bored. Same stuff, different day. He really shouldnt complain, he knew. He had a steady, easy, cushy job. But gods above, it was boring. It didnt use to be, but steadily over the years, more and more of his line of work became automated. Ship manifests? Automated. Flight schedules? Automated. Hell, even landing and taking off didnt even require a pilot or traffic control interfaces anymore. His coworkers, many of which he considered friends, were one by one, given new tasks elsewhere for the Company. Alak was the last. And his workspace had been severely downgraded to reflect his position, so much so that all he had on his desk was a single holoscreen. At least he still had an office with a view, being as he was on the sixty-seventh floor of his building. At least, what passed for a view on the overdeveloped planet the Company called home. Barren rock and squat, grey buildings were on predominant display. He was so bored, that when his desk beeped at him, he almost fell out of his chair. He leaned forward. The holoscreen told him that a troop transport, of all things, had requested entry into the planet for repairs. This particular transport was from the far reach colonization effort. An extremely large ship, as the troops and gear needed to colonize new worlds was considerable. The situation was unusual, but not entirely unheard of. And the system had recognized the ship as one of its own, thus it let it in. What made Alak nervous now, though, was the ship wasnt heading to the shipyards for refit as expected. It was heading Him. His four eyes squinted at his screen. As the blip got closer, he looked out his window to see the ship in question grow larger and eventually, alight on the cliffside next to his building. He looked down from his office window as the cargo doors at the back of the ship opened, and strode out. Alak had never seen anything like them before. They all seemed to be mounted on quadrupedal creatures, similar to the cal-ey the Vekthin bred for livestock. But these didnt seem like those beasts, they moved with intelligence and purpose. Each was a different color than the rest, ranging from sickly green to - was that one made of bone? Alaks mandibles clacked nervously. They stopped at the cliffs edge overlooking the city, and he got a good look at the riders. Fear coursed through him as he beheld them. The one in front seemed to be the leader, clad in black armor that seemed to swallow the sparse light shining through the smog. The others were equally as terrifying, brandishing what Alak could only assume to be ancient weaponry. One had a sword! And another had a staff! Weapons like that hadnt been seen in active service for the Vekthin, millenia. Who ARE they? Alak thought to himself, terror coursing through his veins. He vaguely thought to himself that he should get on his communicator and let his superiors know what he was seeing, but he was rooted to the spot, his gaze transfixed. As he watched, the rider in black bent his head and extended the staff he held, pointing the tip at the ground beneath him and his mount. Alaks breath left his throat as a cyan mist began to shimmer along the weapons length, coalescing at the end to form a wicked looking curved blade. The same mist emanated from the rider himself, falling to the ground and up the ramp into the ships sizable cargo hold. Alaks eyes widened as figures began to exit the ship, a few at first and then a stream and then a flood. Bipeds, the same species as the riders themselves. But these were not calm and collected as the riders were. No, these seemed almost feral. Erratic movements carried them to stand just behind the riders and their mounts. Alaks vantage point allowed him to get a good look and what he saw almost caused him to vomit. They were corpses. By every law in nature, what he saw shouldnt exist. Exposed bone and gaping wounds were apparent on most, and the ones that didnt have seemingly fatal wounds were beginning to rot. Alak began to shake involuntarily. There were thousands upon thousands of them, and they just kept streaming out of the ships cargo hold. Some were armed with all manner of weaponry, some werent. The black armored rider raised his staff-scythe and pointed it, blade first, at the city beneath them. With an unnatural, guttural howl that shook the window of Alaks office, the undead army surged forward, an unending tide of dead flesh given purpose once more. Alaks eyes widened as they began to hurl themselves off the edge of the cliff. No sane, living thing would do that unless they wanted to meet a painful and messy end. But he wasnt looking at either sane or living things here, was he. They fell, one after another to the concrete below. They began to pile themselves on top of one another, making an ever-increasing mountain of death. The ones that fell first began to rise again, and surge forward into the city. Tearing his gaze away from the awful sight before him, he looked again at the riders. The four reared their mounts, and charged down the newly-formed ramp of bodies down into the streets below. Alaks resolve finally broke, and he ran for his life. Death gritted his teeth, struggling to control the power that coursed through his veins. He had never tried to raise so many at once before, didnt even think it possible. But now that the Seals were shattered, he was stronger. They all were. Their forbidden powers fully unlocked, the shackles the Archangels placed on them fallen away. He grinned savagely, the rush of power momentarily going to his head. For the first time since the Pact, he truly felt alive. Ironically enough, he was controlling death to feel it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his siblings gazing at him, awestruck. This was the plan from the outset, it was why they spent the long, sobering task of loading the vestiges of humanity onto the ship. But Death knew the other Horsemen doubted his capabilities. Doubt no longer, he thought to himself. “This is it! ” Death roared, straining to make his voice heard through the gibbering howls and thundering feet of the army of undead. “They took everything from us, now we return the favor! Leave none alive! Ride now! Ride! Ride! ” As one, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse reared in their saddles, and charged down at their enemy. And Hell followed with them. The first wave of vengeful humanity crashed into the city streets and swarmed the hapless aliens. A tide of dead flesh crammed itself into every nook and cranny, every building was scoured of life. Alarms throughout the city began to blare. Death was able to catch glimpses of the battle through the undead eyes of his corpses-turned-soldiers. An alien reached for a blaster hidden under his desk but the desk was flipped over into his face before being torn apart. A corpse aimed a slash at another, but had its arm locked in a pincers vicelike grip. No matter, the corpse simply ripped its arm off at the elbow and stabbed the alien in the throat with its jagged bone. An undead soldier running down a main thoroughfare, cutting down all in his path before being vaporized by the citys civil defense systems. Hm, Death thought. Well need to deal with those. He looked around at the battlefield, seeing everything from his elevated position atop Despairs back. They had the element of surprise at first, but the enemy was quick to mobilize defenses. His fellow Horsemen were scattered, going where the fighting was thickest. He saw War and Ruin gallop into a crowded area where aliens were fleeing. War leapt off Ruins back and slammed his sword into the ground, a whirling inferno leaping outward from his point of impact, incinerating everything it touched. Elsewhere, Famine was a blur, twirling and leaping around blade strikes and energy bolts. His revolvers were a never-ending stream of light and noise, otherworldly cylinders holding infinite rounds. Coming up to a group of alien militia firing back to back under a shield, he laughed, turning himself into grey dust that swirled and coalesced into several clones of himself. Each clone fired on the shield, rounds sapping the shields energy. It sputtered and died, and those underneath it quickly followed suit. Pestilence rode with a group of undead down a street where the Vekthin had setup a blockade. Withering suppressive fire came from behind it. The horde that charged the street crumpled in on itself in the face of the weapons emplacements. She pulled on Malaises reins, stopping him just out of firing range. She raised her hand and snapped her fingers, her tattoos glowing with sickly power. The minds of those Vekthin soldiers manning the guns snapped along with it. They turned on each other, roaring maddening war cries. In this manner, they cut a bloody and brutal swath across the city, leaving nothing but death and echoes in their wake. As they got closer to the center of the city, the fighting grew more and more fierce. The defenses grew more elaborate, and the soldiers they came across were more disciplined and well trained. The Horsemen eventually came to a courtyard in front of a massive stone building. The courtyard held the only signs of plant life they had seen thus far, carefully manicured lawns marbling smooth white pathways. A fountain burbled in the center, the one peaceful sound in the cacophony of war. Death reined in Despair, turning in his saddle to glance back at what they had just fought through. Fires had broken out through the city, and the screams of the dying drifted on the smoky air. The avenue they had fought through to get here was in ruins, blood and corpses strewn about. He reached out to what remained of his army, commanding them to scour the city of all that was still living, and turned his attention to the building before him. “This has to be the Headquarters of this ‘Company referenced so often, ” said Pestilence, dismounting as she entered the courtyard. “No doubt, ” Famine said as he joined them, holstering his revolvers. “Big and imposing? Check. Expensive looking courtyard? Check. Trained soldiers guarding it? Check. Smack dab in city center? Check. ” “Looks deserted, ” Death muttered as he eyed the structure. It seemed to be the only building theyve seen that had any form of embellishment on it at all. Everywhere else seemed to be ruled by function over form, but this building had columns holding its roof aloft. Each one had statuesque depictions of the Vekthin carved into them, in various poses. It dwarfed the neighboring buildings by an order of magnitude. “Only one way to find out, ” War growled, already ascending the stone steps up to the entrance. “Be on your guard, we dont know what surprises they will have waiting for us inside. ” Entering the building, Death saw that it was, indeed, deserted. Smooth floors made of the same strange white stone dominated the main lobby of the building. A domed ceiling rose far above their heads, the apex of it lost in shadow. More statues flanked either side of the vast rectangular room. Torch sconces burned brightly in each statues grip. Strange, Death thought. A race with clearly advanced tech, and they use simple fire to light their most important building? “If their architects were going with ‘intimidating and impractical they nailed it, ” Famine said as he looked around. His voice reverberated and echoed in the cavernous room. As the Horsemen approached the back of the room, two enormous double doors made themselves known and slid soundlessly to either side. An elevator laid beyond. War snorted. “Clearly a trap. ” Pestilence shrugged. “I dont see any better options, do you? ” Death entered the elevator first, deciding to make a decision before an argument broke out. The rest of the Horsemen followed close behind. The elevator was large enough to accommodate the bulk of their armor and weapons. When they were all inside, Death looked for a control panel but found nothing but smooth metal. After a moment, however, the doors slid closed and their stomachs lurched as they started their quick descent. “How far down do you think were going? ” Famine asked after a minute. “Uncomfortably far, ” War said, tapping his foot anxiously. Death agreed, although said nothing. After another minute, the elevator slowed, and stopped. The doors slid open once again and another large room graced them. This one, however, was circular. The floor was concave, and a half circle of stairs led down to the center of the room. The other half was dominated by three large thrones, elevated above the floor. Two of the seats were vacant. The third and center seat, however, was occupied. An ancient Vekthin sat in the seat. His skin was a sickly shade of grey-green, and two of his eyes were milky white with cataracts. His left arm was missing, and a mechanical limb was in its place. However, the limb seemed to be fused somehow with the white stone of his throne. Blue liquid pulsed through artificial veins. His only garb looked to be something of a cross between an ancient greek toga and a military officers uniform. His two good eyes tracked the Horsemen as they entered and stood in a circle around him. “Greetings, Horsemen. And I bid you welcome to Headquarters, ” he croaked, spreading his good arm out wide. In response, War brandished his sword, pointing the razor tip at the alien. “Give me one good reason not to run you through right now, freak. ” The slits of his helm flared crimson as he spoke, anger palpable in every syllable. “Well, because I have information, ” he said tiredly. “Information you all sorely lack. ” “Who are you? And how do you know who we are? ” Death said, his eyes narrowing. The ancient alien rested his head on his good arm and sighed. “What I am called is no longer relevant. And as for your second question, theres a bit of a story required to answer. ” He paused, waiting for any dissent, before continuing. “The Company was contracted to, ah, prepare your planet. A routine procedure, executed without a hitch. Or - so we thought. We began receiving reports of settlements going dark. Battalions of our troops ceasing all communications. My esteemed colleagues, ” he gestured to the empty thrones on either side of him. “They deemed it ‘acceptable losses. They believed nothing was wrong, and that, as you humans say ‘shit happens. ” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I wasnt convinced. So I scoured the records for information on Humanity, and the planet Earth. ” The Horsemen exchanged glances as the alien paused, lost in thought. “It took me a long time to find what I was looking for, and even then I didnt believe it - not fully. Not until I saw you four arrive here today. But after seeing what you wrought, what I found finally made sense. ” He paused again. “Humanity is surprisingly ancient, is it not? Quite a bit of history I had to sort through. But time and time again, I found references to a prophecy. Different wording every time I came across it, but the meaning remained the same. A foretelling of destruction, of death, of apocalypse. Of guardians turned harbingers. It wasnt until today that I knew. We had been tricked into making a terrible mistake. ” Famine stepped forward. “What do you mean, you were contracted? ” The alien locked eyes with him. “The Company werent the architects of your species demise. We were merely the tool. The Council were the ones to sign the contract. In retrospect, they must have known of the prophecy - it was from their records on your race I was able to find out what I know. ” He shook his head slowly. “The Council? ” Pestilence asked, cocking her head to one side. “The Council are the largest conglomerate of species in the known galaxy. Religious zealots, one and all. Their leaders believe it is their ‘divine right to expand and conquer. And considering how overpopulated most planets under their control are, expansion became a necessity. Species they encounter that are deemed strong are brought into their fold, either willingly or by force. Those deemed unworthy, well. Thats where the Company comes in. It works out, seeing as most Company employees are also Council citizens. Personally, I dont quite agree with their ideology, but they have deep coffers. ” Silence descended on the chamber as the Horsemen pondered this new information. “You disgust me, ” said War, grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “You called the wiping out of the human race routine procedure? How many worlds, how many innocent lives have you snuffed out? And for what? Money? Power? ” “I wont deny the part we have played in expanding the Councils influence, ” said the Vekthin, leaning back in his seat. He sighed. “I suppose it was only a matter of time until we found something that fought back. ” “Tell us where to find them, ” Death said, his voice low with barely controlled anger. “And maybe we wont prolong your death like you deserve. ” The alien chuckled softly. “The Councils reach is vast. Their leadership nearly omniscient. They have eyes and ears everywhere. Attempting to eradicate them is folly. You will nev- ACK. ” He was cut off as Death moved, faster than thought, and grabbed him by the throat. Slowly, deliberately, the Horseman lifted the ancient Vekthin off his seat. “Greedy, complacent, and weak, ” Death whispered as the alien struggled in his iron grip. After a few moments, he went still. “Come, ” Death said as he dropped the corpse at his feet. He turned to face his siblings as he spoke. “It seems our work is not over yet. ”.

Hello everyone! And welcome to the result announcement for the best content of r/anime 2019. For those who missed it or want to take a look at the nominations that didn't win, you can find all the links and the description of the contest by following this link. So, without further ado, let's announce the winners for each category. Best Comment The best comment of the year goes to /u/comandoram for this comment in the thread for episode 53 of Shingeki no Kyojin, expressing the feelings of all the viewers shouting their war cries. The second place goes to /u/MillenniumKing for this comment in the thread for episode 7 of Symphogear, with the reset of a years long counter. And finally, the third place also goes to a Shingeki no Kyojin comment, with this comment from /u/Etereke32 for the discussion of episode 58, putting an old meme to new use. Top Commenter This category is for users who regularly post useful and interesting comments in r/anime. /u/LeonKevlar for his screenshots and stitches in episode discussion threads. [Nomination] u/Shimmering-Sky for her positive comment in rewatch threads and stream of wallpaper content. [Nomination] Best episode discussion moment This category is for the best moments by individual users in /u/AutoLovepon 's episode discussion threads. The first place won a double nomination with the best comment category and goes to /u/MillenniumKing for this Symphogear comment, as many viewers were watching the counter getting finally reset. The second place goes to /u/Bainos (I don't know that person) for deciding to own up the errors of /u/AutoLovepon. Most Enjoyable Rewatch The first place goes to the Sora Yori mo Tooi Basho rewatch rewatch by /u/RX-Nota-II. The second place goes to the Chihayafuru rewatch by /u/ABoredCompSciStudent. The third place goes to the Mid-2000s hidden gems rewatch by /u/phiraeth which included Mai-HiME, Fantastic Children, and Simoun. Best Original Fanart This Evangelion fanart submitted here by /u/GenelJumalon. This triple fanart of Mob Psycho, Tate no Yuusha and Yakusoku no Neverland submitted here by /u/dmjh93. Best Original Non Art Content This category is for the best created content not based on art, such as tables and infographics. The Best Girl 6 Madness run by /u/JDefenseAnime during our annual Best Girl contest. The karma ranking charts posted weekly by /u/reddadz. Most Valuable Contributor to r/anime This category credits people who contributed, publicly or in the shadows, to help make r/anime prosper during the year. /u/Nazenn for taking care of the monthly image you see in our sidebar promoting our WT! of the Month award. [Nomination] u/RX-Nota-II for the organization of rewatches and WT! compilations. [Nomination] u/Mad_Scientist_001 helping maintain the subreddit wiki and posting the WT! compilation posts. [Nomination] Best Original Essay China and the Anime Industry by /u/Chariotwheel. Chihayafuru Analysis and Board Maps by /u/walking_the_way, co-authored by /u/ABoredCompSciStudent. Bakemonogatari and Growing Up with a Monster by /u/Vaynonym. Top Submitter /u/reddadz, in addition to the Best Non Art Content, also wins the Top Submitter category for the weekly karma ranking charts. /u/Mad_Scientist_001 gets second place for taking over the job of monthly WT! Submitter and keeping it up diligently. Best Original Review This category is for anime reviews submitted on r/anime. in other words, for Watch This! WT. posts. "Plawres Sanshiro - A story of plastic model combat sports" a WT! for the 1983 show Plawres Senshiro by /u/Pixelsaber. "Granbelm: Finding purpose and meaning in life, a liberation from suffering" a WT! for the Summer 2019 show Granbelm by /u/phiraeth. Best Episode Discussion Thread This category is for the best discussion threads, when the community came together to express their passion for anime. Rewards will be distributed to randomly chosen users in the thread to avoid giving all the credit to /u/AutoLovepon. Kaguya-sama Episode 12, one of the most gilded posts on Reddit. Shingeki no Kyojin Episode 53, also the thread that got the Best Comment award. One Piece Episode 9001 which was. posted ahead of its time. After a certain /u/AutoLovepon maintainer failed to make their code foolproof, the bot decided to post a discussion thread for episode 9001 of One Piece. The /r/anime users decided to take it seriously and discuss the events of this 692nd cour of the show. In case anyone is wondering, the bug has been patched. "Holo fans were so afraid of losing to a meme waifu that they were blindsided from the possibility of losing to an actual character. There is no way do this moment justice without quoting the original comment by /u/ShadSilvs2000. After all, salt is a staple of the Best Girl contest. Better luck next year, Holo voters! Sometimes, certain staple scenes comes back regularly as a way to show some specific ambiance in anime. And sometimes, people like /u/Jason3b93 take it seriously and decide to write a post describing the Top 10 Static Shots of Power Lines With Cicada Noises. And with this, we conclude the Best Of r/anime 2019 We thank everyone who participated in the nominations and voting for this contest. Awards will be sent to the winners in the upcoming days. We will be counting on you to make even more quality content for r/anime in 2020.

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