Riders of the Night

 

Ditlev Blunck's Nightmare, 1846

Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s imagination rarely remained earthbound. Camille Paglia once described his finest passages as carrying readers “far into the daemonic realm,” a phrase that feels less like metaphor than diagnosis. Coleridge’s inner life was haunted by nocturnal visitations – violent night terrors that pursued him from childhood into adulthood. His biographer Richard Holmes traces these episodes with clinical tenderness: awakenings pinned beneath invisible weight, consciousness stranded between waking and dream, the mind crowded with phantasms that refused to dissipate with daylight.

Coleridge attempted to subject these experiences to reason. He annotated them obsessively, filling his notebooks with baroque deformities and malignant tableaux. Those pages of private terror became the seedbed of his poetry and prose. What modern psychology would identify as sleep paralysis accompanied by hypnagogic hallucinations arrived for Coleridge as revelation and affliction alike. The specters pressed upon his chest, whispered, leered, lingered. Art followed in their wake.

The language itself remembers this affliction. Nightmare descends from the Old English mære, a hostile being believed to straddle the sleeper’s body. The word carries an older weight still, inherited from Proto-Germanic marōn, shadowed by the Indo-European root mer- – to crush, to oppress – and perhaps brushed by the Greek móros, doom. Long before neuroscience gave names to REM intrusion and dissociated consciousness, cultures around the world fashioned narratives sturdy enough to bear the terror.

Ancient Mesopotamia offers some of the earliest records. Cuneiform tablets describe rituals intended to banish nocturnal assailants, among them the dreaded hag-demon Labartu, often identified with Lamashtu, who preyed upon sleepers and infants alike. In Akkadian lore, the spirits lilû and līlītu haunted the night air – male and female presences whose lineage survives in the later Latin incubi and succubae. Augustine, writing in late antiquity, remarks that reports of such beings were shared by so many witnesses that their credibility scarcely required defense.

The pattern persists across continents and centuries. In Arabic-speaking regions, sufferers speak of Ja-thoom, “that which sits heavily,” a name that captures the physical tyranny of the experience. Chinese tradition calls it guǐ yā shēn – a ghost pressing down upon the body. Along the North Atlantic rim, particularly in Newfoundland and Nova Scotia, folklore preserves the figure of the night hag, a malign intruder said to mount the sleeper in order to siphon away vitality or soul. As Patrick McNamara has observed, these tales remain vivid, communal, and stubbornly alive. Anyone raised in Atlantic Canada hears them early and remembers them long.

Such stories do more than explain a neurological event. They stage an encounter with the mind’s own abyss. Horror, in this sense, becomes a technology of survival: a way of naming, externalizing, and perhaps bargaining with the nocturnal forces that invade consciousness without consent. Coleridge’s genius lay in transforming his private persecutions into shared symbols, granting shape and cadence to what otherwise arrives as suffocation and dread.

The fascination endures because the experience endures. Each culture furnishes its own riders of the night, its own vocabulary for paralysis and presence. Beneath the folklore and the poetry, the same human drama unfolds – eyes open in the dark, breath trapped, imagination ablaze – while something ancient and intimate leans close, heavy as doom.

Choosing a Successor

Eugène Delacroixm, Last Words of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius 1844 

Marcus Aurelius occupies a peculiar moral position in Western intellectual history. He is praised as the philosopher-emperor, the rare ruler whose private writings articulate restraint, humility, and cosmic acceptance while his public life unfolded amid plague, war, and administrative strain. Meditations continues to function as a manual for ethical composure under pressure. Yet hovering over this admiration is an uncomfortable historical fact: Marcus Aurelius raised and appointed Commodus, a son whose reign nearly unraveled the Roman imperial system. This tension is rarely confronted directly. The question is not simply why Commodus was unfit, but why Marcus is so consistently insulated from responsibility for having made him emperor.

Part of the answer lies in how Marcus Aurelius has been framed – as a moral subject rather than a political agent. Stoicism, particularly in its Roman imperial form, privileges intention, inner disposition, and assent over outcomes. Marcus is judged by the serenity and rigor of his inner life rather than by the consequences of his dynastic decisions. This ethical emphasis subtly displaces responsibility: failure becomes a matter of fate or external circumstance rather than of judgment or governance. The son’s corruption is treated as contingency, not causation.

Psychologically, this reflects a familiar bias. Moral evaluation often favors perceived sincerity over structural effect. Marcus appears earnest, reflective, self-critical; Commodus appears theatrical, cruel, impulsive. The contrast encourages moral compartmentalization. One becomes a model of virtue, the other an aberration. Yet from a developmental and political standpoint, this division is artificial. Children do not emerge ex nihilo. Rulers are not appointed by accident. Commodus was not an unforeseen anomaly imposed upon Marcus; he was shaped within Marcus’s household and elevated by Marcus’s will.

Roman imperial ideology compounds this evasion. By the second century, the principate had drifted from the adoption-based meritocracy idealized under the “Five Good Emperors” toward hereditary succession. Marcus was the first in that sequence to pass power directly to his biological son. This was not an inevitability; it was a choice. He had precedents for adoption. He had competent generals and administrators at hand. Yet he reinstated dynastic continuity at precisely the moment when the empire’s complexity demanded restraint from hereditary risk. The philosophical emperor made a deeply conservative political move.

Why, then, is Marcus not judged more harshly? One reason is narrative convenience. Western intellectual tradition has a limited supply of rulers who can be credibly described as reflective, humane, and philosophically serious. Marcus fills that role too neatly to be destabilized. Criticizing him too sharply threatens the comforting idea that wisdom and power can coexist without remainder. Commodus becomes the scapegoat that preserves the fantasy.

There is also the influence of Meditations itself. The text is radically inward-facing. Marcus writes to discipline his own responses, not to justify policy. The work offers no sustained reflection on governance, succession, or institutional design. This omission is often interpreted charitably, as humility. It can also be read as ethical narrowing. By treating political power as morally external – something to be endured rather than shaped – Marcus exempts himself from examining how his authority structures the future.

From the standpoint of moral psychology, this reflects a misalignment between personal virtue ethics and systems-level responsibility. Stoicism excels at regulating affect, limiting reactivity, and sustaining dignity under duress. It is less well-equipped to address the generational consequences of institutional decisions. Marcus trains himself to accept what he cannot control, yet succession was precisely something he could control. His failure lies not in ignorance of Commodus’s flaws – ancient sources suggest he was aware – but in overestimating the corrective power of moral example and underestimating the inertia of character once authority is absolute.

Modern leadership theory would describe this as a category error: confusing personal mentorship with structural constraint. Commodus did not merely inherit a father; he inherited unchecked power. No amount of Stoic instruction can substitute for institutional safeguards. Marcus’s belief that philosophical formation could compensate for political exposure reveals a quiet idealism at odds with his otherwise sober worldview.

There is also an emotional dimension that scholarship often avoids. Marcus was a father who had lost many children. Commodus survived when others did not. Psychological research on parental attachment suggests that scarcity intensifies investment. In this light, Marcus’s decision appears less philosophical than human. The emperor who preached impermanence clung to continuity. Stoic composure did not prevent paternal bias; it may have rationalized it.

Commodus’s reign rendered visible the cost of Marcus’s wager. Authority curdled into theatre. The empire’s gravity shifted from administration to exhibition, from judgment to appetite. Power no longer circulated through law, custom, and delegated competence, but pooled around the emperor’s body – his performances, his humiliations of the Senate, his appetite for ritualized violence. The symbolic heart of Rome liquefied into spectacle. This was not merely decline in efficiency; it was deformation of meaning. Rule itself became a prop in an extended narcissistic rite. Such an outcome cannot remain sealed off from the decision that placed Commodus at the center. The wreckage reaches backward, fastening itself to Marcus’s choice with retrospective force. The philosopher-emperor stands implicated, not as a moral aberration, but as a thinker whose ethical grammar lacked purchase where inheritance and institutional continuity were concerned.

I remember the moment this implication became unavoidable. I was young, reading Gibbon late at night, intoxicated by his cadences, his cold lucidity, his talent for turning centuries into sentences. I had absorbed the familiar catechism: Marcus as the last good emperor, Commodus as the aberrant son, history’s punchline after its noblest paragraph. Then the catalog began. Assassinations disguised as sport. Senators reduced to trembling extras. The imperial treasury bled into pageantry and paranoia. The slow corrosion of legitimacy, accelerating with each grotesque improvisation. What struck me was not Commodus’s depravity – Roman history is thick with monsters – but the scale and speed with which one man’s psychodrama infected the entire imperial apparatus. The realization arrived with a dull, unpleasant clarity: this catastrophe was not an interruption. It was a succession.

From that point, the customary insulation around Marcus’s reputation began to feel less like fairness and more like ritual absolution. The tradition strains to quarantine Commodus as anomaly, as if pathology alone could explain a reign so structurally destructive. Marcus remains embalmed in aphorism, preserved by the intimacy of the Meditations, sheltered by the genre itself. His failures are treated as domestic misfortune rather than political outcome. Ethics retreats inward; power absorbs the blow. The father remains intact; the son carries the stain. This division flatters philosophy by sparing it the consequences of governance.

Yet the failure here resists psychologizing. It belongs to the architecture of Marcus’s thought. Stoicism trained him to cultivate sovereignty at the level of judgment, to secure the citadel of the self against contingency. It sharpened endurance, restraint, and inward order. What it did not demand – what it scarcely prepared him for – was the design of systems capable of surviving character. Succession required suspicion, redundancy, friction. It required treating virtue as unreliable substrate rather than sufficient guarantee. Marcus trusted formation where constraint was needed. He governed his soul with ferocity and governed the future with hope.

This reframing does not invite denunciation. It strips away hagiography and leaves a figure more exposed, more historically legible. Marcus was neither betrayed by fate nor undone by genetics. He was a ruler whose philosophical inheritance weighted interior discipline over political reproduction. His attention lingered on how to endure power rather than how power perpetuates itself. The blindness here carries no malice. It arises from a mismatch between ethical refinement and institutional imagination.

Seen from this angle, Marcus grows disturbingly contemporary. Modern leadership repeats the same error in new dialects. Personal integrity substitutes for structural resilience. Sincerity masquerades as safeguard. Leaders speak fluently about values while entrusting continuity to temperament and good will. The lesson carried by Commodus’s reign does not indict philosophy as ornament. It exposes its limits when severed from mechanisms that anticipate failure. Thought governs the self. Systems govern what comes after. When the second task is neglected, the first becomes a footnote.

The empire paid for this neglect in blood, ridicule, and accelerated decay. History, less forgiving than posterity, records the cost. Marcus remains admirable, but admiration need not entail exemption. His legacy acquires weight when it includes the consequences of his faith in virtue as inheritance. Consciousness, whether imperial or personal, survives by shaping conditions as much as by refining intention. Where that balance collapses, even the most disciplined mind leaves ruin in its wake.

Two Sisters, One World

Théodore Chassériau, Les Deux Sœurs (1843)

 

The mind that produced Justine and Juliette rarely possessed a horizon wider than a courtyard, a corridor, a cell. Yet the imagination ranged across abbeys, boudoirs, châteaux, Alpine passes, subterranean vaults, brothels lit like infernal chapels. This discrepancy between bodily confinement and imaginative excess already gestures toward the animating contradiction of Donatien-Alphonse-François de Sade: a man whose lived existence oscillated between impotence and irritation, and whose fiction indulged a cosmology of omnipotent appetite.

If literature were a long corridor, I imagine it illuminated unevenly – warm and hospitable near the entrance, austere and thinning as one moves on, until at the farthest reach the light fails altogether. Sade writes from that terminal darkness. Not because he is obscure, but because he insists on seeing what remains when illumination is withdrawn. His books feel written by someone pressing forward long after others have turned back.

I am drawn to him for that reason, though never without unease. Sade occupies an extreme that clarifies the whole span. He concentrates human possibility until its oppositions sharpen: longing and revulsion, tenderness and cruelty, aspiration and appetite. He does not allow these tensions to blur. He insists they be examined at full intensity. For someone who struggles – often and privately – with desire, with the pull between wanting and wanting to be good, this extremity has a strange diagnostic power.

It is for this reason that I have chosen to linger with Justine and Juliette in particular. Together they form the two faces of Sade’s vision, struck from the same metal and bearing opposite reliefs. One sanctifies virtue and watches it grind itself to dust. The other enthrones vice and traces its ascent with ceremonial calm. Read separately, each risks distortion. Read together, they lock into a single mechanism. They are not competing stories but complementary exposures, each rendering visible what the other conceals.

These novels function like opposing mirrors angled toward the same interior conflict. Sade divides his world so that its contradictions can be staged without compromise. The result is not balance but tension held deliberately open. In placing these two texts side by side, I am less interested in adjudicating between them than in observing the system they generate together – a moral universe polarized to its breaking point

The temptation, especially among moralists and apologists alike, has been to collapse the two: to read the novels as stenography of conduct, or to sanitize the life by aestheticizing the books. Neither approach survives sustained attention. Sade’s writing is extravagant beyond plausibility; his life, by contrast, reads as a ledger of frustrations, humiliations, legal harassment, and dwindling authority. Between the two yawns a gulf filled with paper, ink, and obsession.

Nowhere is this divide more theatrically staged than in the paired destinies of Justine and Juliette, sister-texts masquerading as philosophical treatises, devotional parodies, and obscene fairy tales. These novels form a diptych whose panels glare at one another across a moral abyss. One depicts a girl devoted to chastity, piety, and submission, rewarded by a sequence of calamities whose repetition grows ritualistic. The other follows her sister, a woman who adopts cruelty as vocation and metaphysics alike, rewarded with wealth, influence, and serene longevity. Together they present a universe governed by a principle as cold as marble: virtue attracts ruin; vice draws nourishment.

This proposition, so bald in summary, acquires its true force through the novels’ obsessive pacing. Sade does not persuade through argument alone; he wears down the reader through accumulation. Each outrage accrues weight through recurrence. The moral universe becomes a treadmill lubricated with blood and semen, turning endlessly beneath a sky emptied of providence. There is a pedagogical sadism at work: comprehension arrives through exhaustion.

Justine unfolds like a devotional manual written by a demon with a clerical education. The heroine wanders from convent to forest, from highway to manor, bearing her virtue like a relic that magnetizes violation. Each episode reconfigures the same geometry: a plea for mercy, a sermon on morality delivered by a libertine theologian, an assault that doubles as philosophical demonstration. The prose lingers over rationalizations with scholastic patience, as though vice were being defended before a tribunal staffed by its own apostles.

Justine’s endurance acquires a liturgical cadence. She kneels, she prays, she forgives. Her suffering becomes ceremonial. In a traditional hagiography, endurance culminates in transfiguration; here it produces only further exposure. Grace evaporates. Heaven remains silent. The body persists as a surface upon which doctrines are inscribed.

Readers often mistake this structure for naïveté or clumsiness, missing the degree to which repetition functions as method. Sade subjects virtue to stress testing. He places it in increasingly hostile conditions, observing its failure with experimental relish. The novel becomes a laboratory in which moral ideals undergo torture until their metaphysical claims dissolve. Piety proves aerated, hollow, unable to resist the pressure of appetite and power.

Yet there is also something funereal in the book’s devotion to punishment. Justine’s virtue acquires an eerie obstinacy. She refuses contamination even as the world feeds upon her refusal. The effect recalls a statue eroding under acid rain: the contours blur, yet the posture remains upright. Sade’s contempt for virtue intertwines with a fascination bordering on reverence. He destroys it again and again, as though the act itself were necessary to sustain his cosmology.

If Justine resembles a martyr’s life rewritten by a prosecuting attorney, Juliette reads like a manual for ascension within an infernal bureaucracy. Juliette learns early that appetite functions as intelligence, that cruelty sharpens perception. She becomes fluent in the rhetoric of domination, conversant with the pleasures of calculation. Her education unfolds through salons, palaces, and secret societies where libertine philosophy circulates alongside wine and bodies.

Juliette’s triumphs accumulate with an almost bureaucratic neatness. Each crime enlarges her sphere of influence. Each murder expands her metaphysical confidence. She acquires patrons who double as executioners, mentors who resemble theologians of annihilation. The world responds to her appetites with accommodation and reward. Nature itself appears complicit.

Here Sade stages his most scandalous proposition: that vice aligns with the underlying mechanics of existence. Juliette’s speeches throb with a grim lyricism, presenting cruelty as obedience to the cosmos. The universe emerges as an immense digestive system, indifferent to pain, animated by circulation and waste. To kill, to violate, to dominate becomes an act of metaphysical hygiene.

The novel’s obscenity extends beyond sex. Its true indecency lies in the calmness with which atrocity is integrated into reason. Juliette rarely rages. She calculates. Her pleasure derives from symmetry between desire and outcome. In her mouth, blasphemy acquires the tone of professional competence.

Yet the book’s triumphalism carries an undertow of sterility. Pleasure flattens into routine. Excess requires constant escalation. The rhetoric grows swollen, engorged with catalogues of sensation that begin to resemble inventories. One senses a mind trapped within its own productivity, condemned to fabricate ever more extreme tableaux to sustain conviction. Vice demands continual proof.

Taken together, Justine and Juliette form a philosophical vise. The reader is compressed between incompatible moral trajectories, both presented with relentless conviction. There is no refuge in moderation. Compassion dissolves under pressure; cruelty expands until it resembles law.

This binary has often been read as satire, and rightly so, though satire alone feels insufficient. Sade does not merely mock moral optimism; he vivisects it. The sisters function as instruments rather than characters, vectors through which doctrines travel. Their psychology matters less than their placement within a system.

Yet the system itself bears marks of psychic investment. The opposition between the sisters resembles an internal schism externalized into narrative. One senses the author staging a quarrel with himself, assigning incompatible impulses to separate bodies. The novels read as a prolonged autopsy of conscience conducted by a mind unwilling to accept consolation.

Sade’s own biography resists the mythic scale of his fiction. He belonged to the minor aristocracy, possessed a title that carried more residue than authority. His early scandals involved theatrical cruelty and sexual experimentation, though the historical record suggests a mixture of exaggeration, legal opportunism, and genuine misconduct. What followed were decades punctuated by incarceration: Vincennes, the Bastille, Charenton. Prison became his most reliable address.

The popular image of Sade as a figure of boundless libertinage dissolves under scrutiny. His actual reach rarely matched his fantasies. He depended on intermediaries, bribery, manipulation. He aged into physical decline, debt, obscurity. The Revolution, which briefly freed him, soon rendered him suspect once more. His name passed through political hands as easily as his manuscripts passed through guards.

What remains striking is the disproportion between the man’s constrained circumstances and the cosmic ambitions of his writing. Sade composed scenes of limitless cruelty while reliant on the kindness or negligence of jailers. His imagination became an instrument of compensation, manufacturing sovereignty where none existed. The page replaced the world as a site of action.

This does not reduce the fiction to therapy. Rather, it situates it within a history of frustration. Sade wrote as someone acutely aware of impotence, legal and bodily. His novels read as revenge fantasies elevated into philosophy. Power denied in life reappears on the page as ontological principle.

The label of madness clings to Sade with a tenacity rivaling that of his infamy. His final years at Charenton, where he staged plays and wandered the gardens under supervision, have been cast as evidence of mental collapse. Yet the picture remains ambiguous. He retained lucidity, organized performances, maintained relationships. The institution functioned as asylum and theater, refuge and cage.

What appears as madness may instead be an ethical exile. Sade’s thought rendered him uninhabitable within prevailing moral architectures. He refused consolation, rejected redemption, treated suffering as datum rather than problem. Such positions invite diagnosis in cultures invested in therapeutic narratives.

His writing displays coherence, even obsessional clarity. Arguments recur with variations, refined rather than abandoned. The tone rarely fractures into incoherence. Excess serves system rather than eruption. If madness appears, it manifests as fidelity to a vision untempered by mercy.

In this sense, Sade resembles a theologian who continued preaching after God’s death, delivering sermons to an empty nave. His cruelty possessed a liturgical quality. The repetition that exhausts readers also sustained him. He wrote as though survival depended on continuation.

The physical settings of Sade’s novels mirror his philosophical terrain. Castles loom like fossilized appetites. Forests serve as corridors for predation. Convents conceal engines of torture behind plaster saints. The landscape appears designed to facilitate cruelty, as though architecture itself had absorbed ethical collapse.

These places feel strangely airless. Windows exist to frame surveillance rather than light. Gardens offer concealment rather than repose. The natural world, stripped of pastoral innocence, collaborates with violence. Mountains echo with screams that dissipate without reply.

Such environments resonate with the author’s lived confinement. The world becomes a series of enclosures nested within one another. Freedom appears only as the freedom to dominate or destroy. Movement leads from one chamber of violation to the next.

The endurance of Justine and Juliette owes less to their erotic content than to their metaphysical audacity. They refuse compromise. They propose a universe governed by appetite without apology. Later readers have attempted to recruit Sade into political or psychoanalytic frameworks, transforming him into prophet or symptom. These appropriations illuminate facets while diminishing others.

What persists is the chill these books emit. They do not seduce so much as corrode. They place the reader within a world where ethical reflexes misfire, where compassion becomes liability. One emerges altered, though not instructed.

Sade’s own end lacked theatrical grandeur. He died in obscurity, requesting an unmarked grave, as though seeking erasure after such prolific inscription. His wish went unfulfilled. The texts survived, multiplying in editions, annotations, interpretations. The man dissolved; the system endured.

Justine and Juliette remain bound together like twin stars orbiting a collapsed moral center. They illuminate a world emptied of consolation, animated by forces indifferent to pleading. Through them, Sade stages a vision of existence stripped of sentiment, polished to a cruel sheen.

The disparity between his life and his fiction does not diminish their force. It sharpens it. A man hemmed in by walls imagined a universe without mercy. A body subject to authority authored cosmologies of domination. The books stand as monuments to imagination operating under siege.

Sade’s legacy resists resolution. He offers no wisdom suitable for comfort. He supplies no ladder out of despair. What he provides is exposure: an unflinching gaze into the possibility that cruelty harmonizes with existence, that virtue attracts calamity, that the cosmos hums along without concern for our petitions.

Whether one recoils or lingers, the encounter leaves residue. The sisters continue their pilgrimage, one bleeding, one crowned, both enclosed within the same indifferent world. And somewhere behind them, a figure scratches with furious patience, turning confinement into doctrine, deprivation into vision, and grievance into an architecture vast enough to survive its creator.

Memory Watches

Memory does not fail; it withdraws its cooperation and watches what you do without it.

Moore's Misogyny and Miss Harker

One of the clearest places where The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen collapses is Mina Harker. And it’s not a minor misstep or a difference of interpretation – it’s a fundamental misunderstanding of what makes the character, and Dracula itself, work at all.

Mina Harker is not interesting because she is dark, abrasive, or “strong” in a modern, performative sense. She is interesting because she combines intelligence, tenderness, moral courage, and self-sacrifice without ever becoming passive. In Stoker’s novel, she is the emotional and ethical center of the book. She gathers information, synthesizes knowledge, steadies the group, and – crucially – chooses to risk her own soul so that Dracula can be destroyed. Halfway through the novel, she is effectively the leader. The men follow her because she is worth following.

Moore throws this away completely. His Mina Murray is embittered, domineering, sexually hardened, and emotionally punitive – a stock figure lifted from a much thinner tradition of “tough women in charge.” The result isn’t subversive; it’s reductive. She reads less like a reimagining of Mina Harker and more like a projection of Moore’s recurring problem with female authority: power is expressed through cruelty, sexuality is stripped of warmth, and vulnerability is treated as weakness rather than strength.

This ties directly into Moore’s long-standing trouble with sex in general. His erotic writing consistently confuses transgression with depth and explicitness with honesty. Lost Girls is the most obvious example, but the same tonal problems surface here. Sexuality becomes abrasive, joyless, and faintly punitive. Women, especially, are flattened into vectors for experience rather than agents of meaning. Moore seems unable – or unwilling – to imagine erotic life that doesn’t carry a residue of contempt.

What makes this especially frustrating is Moore’s hypocrisy. He has repeatedly criticized other writers for reusing, remixing, or “misunderstanding” established characters. He has framed such practices as artistically lazy or ethically suspect. And yet League is nothing but reuse – often careless reuse – of characters whose entire significance depends on historical, social, and moral contexts Moore either ignores or actively rejects.

Nowhere is that failure more damaging than with Mina. Dracula is structured around a moral premise that Moore appears not to grasp: that saving one woman from corruption matters enough to justify collective risk and sacrifice. Mina is not “rescued” because she is weak. She is defended because she is good, capable, and beloved. That idea may be unfashionable, but without it the novel collapses – and so does Mina herself.

Moore replaces this with a version of Mina who seems to resent everyone around her, who governs through scorn, and whose authority feels borrowed rather than earned. The warmth, courage, and quiet ferocity that made Mina unforgettable are gone. What remains is a character who could be swapped with almost any generic genre leader without loss.

The pattern repeats across Moore’s work, but Mina is particularly egregious. When Moore mishandles male characters, the result is often eccentric or indulgent. When he mishandles female characters, the damage cuts deeper. Sexuality curdles. Authority turns sour. Compassion evaporates.

The tragedy is that Moore is capable of far better. He understands power, fear, and myth as well as anyone in the medium. But when it comes to women – and especially women whose strength is inseparable from moral gravity – he too often substitutes abrasion for insight.

Mina Harker deserved more than that. So did the book that borrowed her name.

Euoplocephalus Musing

Living about 76 million years ago during the Late Cretaceous, Euoplocephalus roamed what is now Alberta, Canada, in the river plains preserved in the Dinosaur Park Formation. At roughly 5.5 meters long and up to three tons, it was low to the ground, wide, and built like a mobile bunker. Its name says it all: “well-armed, well-protected head.”

Like all ankylosaurs, it looked a bit like an armoured coffee table on four short legs, but the armour was serious engineering. Its body was covered in a dense mosaic of bony plates – small bead-like ossicles packed between larger, ridged scutes. Even the eyelids had armour, leaving very few exposed surfaces anywhere on the body.

Euoplocephalus was a plant-eater, but not a picky one. It used a horny beak to crop low-growing plants, then passed them to a large gut where bacteria did most of the digestive work. Its small, leaf-shaped teeth were less about chewing and more about steady intake. Eating was slow, constant, and efficient.

Defense was where this dinosaur really stood out. Its tail ended in a massive bony club, supported by interlocking vertebrae that turned the tail into a rigid handle. Only the base of the tail stayed flexible, allowing the club to swing sideways with real force. Against predators like Gorgosaurus, Euoplocephalus didn’t need speed. It needed timing and mass.

What makes Euoplocephalus especially interesting for an exhibit is how different its survival strategy was. Instead of fleeing danger, it absorbed it. Instead of seeing far ahead, it dealt with threats up close. Its entire body was built around the idea of staying put and being very hard to move.

Euoplocephalus reminds us that in prehistoric ecosystems, dominance didn’t always belong to the fastest or fiercest. Sometimes survival meant becoming solid, patient, and extremely difficult to mess with.

The Covenant

There’s an oath beneath every sentence – 
breathed into the shape of grammar,
a covenant made in the quiver
between syllables.
One mouth meeting another
in a contract older than lips.

Mind calls it the cooperative principle.
But the body knows better.
The body calls it need.
The need to be touched
in a place no hand can reach –
not quite the soul,
but something nearby,
aching.

You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?
That moment in a conversation
when everything tilts –
not into love,
not yet –
but into possibility.
A pause that hangs
like a secret about to be confessed
or undressed.

Say enough.
Say it right.
Say it bare.
That’s the rule.
We don’t talk to share facts.
We talk to seduce.
To draw breath across the skin
of another’s listening.

Even lies play by the rules –
the tongue must still curl just so,
must still taste the outline
of what could be true.

There’s a rhythm to honesty,
but betrayal has its own melody.
It hums under your words
like heat under a locked door.
Even that,
if done gently,
can be forgiven.

Because what matters isn’t what we say –
it’s how.
It’s always how.

A look held too long.
A word dropped like a hand
on a bare shoulder.
A sentence slowed
as if unbuttoning itself.

We smuggle desire into the folds of speech.
We wrap meaning in tone,
gesture,
breath –
until it slips past logic
and lands between two ribs
where knowing becomes ache.

In the temple of speech,
we are not honest.
We are aroused.

Each phrase a finger tracing
what we cannot touch.
Each nod a sigh disguised.

What is language, really,
but a truce between minds
too hungry to be alone?