Why I Will Never Write a Book in This Life

A story that explains why I will never write a book in this life, and what led me to destroy all of my manuscripts. Yes, you read that right — I will never write a book. That book was already written in another lifetime. I have no more aspirations to become an Occult Author — so all the mediocre bitches who covet their status can sigh relief.

Anima Noira

The story takes place in the 1600s and 1700s in Spain.

I am a man; a well-groomed, dark, and learned man. This was a past life of my own, that was shown to me by Lucifer lately as an answer to some big questions plaguing me. I remembered that I wrote a book that only I can tell you about because it didn’t survive to this day.

It was a detailed explication of the Mechanics of Hell, and how Demonic Contracts operate on Temptations.

It detailed the fatal flaws that Sorcerers operated under, as well as the errors of the Pious who were always embroiled in a Holy Battle with them.

I wrote this book alone, from observation. I attended questioning of the Heretics as an expert witness. I witnessed torture of the Black Magicians. I noticed they were often guilty of the exact hideous crimes they were accused of, and they were flaunting it with pride.

Needless to say, their debauchery in terror and violence was fully matched by the cruelty of their persecutors.

I noticed — I couldn’t help but notice — that some of these theaters of terror that the justices allowed, and the new devious torture inventions pretty much mirrored the accounts of the terrors inflicted by these Black Cults — that without the needful self-reflections, the persecutors became just like the criminals.

With the knowledge of these devious methods employed by the justice system, the rogue discipline internalized within the Witch Cults had to be on par with that, to serve as a deterrent to traitors. Tragically, these Black Cults, which I believed originally held a genuine promise of freedom, freedom from living in the chains of society, held their faithful by the neck, by an awful dark contract in constant fear.

I was a spectator, not involved in the drama, and I would only confide my thoughts to very few, a sentence here and there when I felt it could be safely received. I trusted not in the various institutions erected by man that allegedly aimed for knowledge. I failed to see a true zest for knowledge in them.

Least of all, among the two types of men who made the boldest claims for the ownership of knowledge — the Religious and the Warlocks.

My goal was knowledge — and I didn’t see anyone in sincere pursuit of it. So I trusted no one, other than in my own scientific method. And that included, at the time, Evocation of Spirits, which was deemed to be a legitimate — albeit slightly unconventional — method of gathering intelligence among the men of letters.

I arrived at many conclusions alone at the desk and in the circle, consulting with the Prince of Darkness who answered my summons many times. Our encounters were polite and pleasant — like the conversations between cultured men. I enjoyed them greatly. I am pretty sure I climaxed in my sleep afterwards more than once.

But let us not distract from the story.

The key lesson why He answered my call again, showing me this past life — as the past often foretells the present — revolves around the reasons why my book did not survive. They are the same reasons why I will not attempt writing a book in this lifetime to reconstruct said knowledge.

Seriously — I destroyed all of my manuscripts, last week. They no longer exist. Up in the flames. Lucifer challenged me to prove my seriousness by handing them over, so I did hand them over to Hell, with relief. ‘There are too many books out there, already in this era,’ the Prince of Darkness said. ‘All with the same false promise of imbuing the reader with instant power when it’s really passing on the author’s own delusions, and scraps of preserved lore, to then become a collectible item, gathering dust in a library of dead relics, creating more attachments.’

All I had discovered in the 1600s, I took with me, because neither side was interested in preserving it.

The Warlocks were only interested in propagating their cause, which more often than not boiled down to creating theological beliefs and pretenses for hideous crimes of lust of the worst sort. It was an infamy-chasing bad lust on their end, I noticed — the dark thrill, knowing that they would be whispered about, knowing they would be feared, knowing that everything from church sermons to political speeches and scary ballads will be written about them.

It gave them a kick of a sexual sort.

To my astonishment, I concluded that despite the Witch Cult’s overtly secretive nature, and rejection of society, perhaps one of its greatest driving lusts was the lust for infamy!

As a man removed from the pursuit of sexual relations for most of my life, but not celibate, I felt well-positioned to make these kinds of, frankly scandalous, observations. I entertained myself with the notion that I had discovered something that, if more widely acknowledged, would tear down the basic foundations of society.

I observed that the Religious, with their obscene — and, frankly, obsessive — fascination with cataloguing the Debaucheries of the Witches and the Devil’s Deeds, were mostly celibate people, or they were men and women living in Holy Marriages, where even the sexual act in said marriage was some kind of investment in there own holiness. As they were lacking in proper sexual release, and harmless entertainment of the folk sort, such as lowly theater, was taboo among them, they intellectualized their angst into recounting the crimes of the Witches — when they did so, they engaged in a Holy Masturbation.

Nowhere was this more obvious as with the behaviour of people at public executions.

There was a palpable sense of collective release of anguish and lust, as people gave into screaming and crying. I swear I saw a woman in hysteria, once, she had an orgasmic seizure, which was medicalized and explained away by some kind of unholy possession caused by the sight of executed criminals and the impurity of their souls. If this was the case, then — people needed what only Satan provided, and they lusted after it.

The Church, working hand in hand with secular justice, provided a mass release by orchestrating these public spectacles — but, of course, in loud denial that this would be anything of the sort of the long banned circus games of pagan Rome.

People opined that witnessing public executions was nothing like that, the gladiator games. They professed that they took their children with them — not to give themselves an alibi for doing wicked entertainment, but to instill into them morality and virtue.

Still — a good third of the population was under no illusion that this was gratification of lust.

I swear I saw old men masturbating after dark to the sight of the exposed dead bodies that were hung up in cages on the tower of the town hall. I know what I saw.

Wait… Did I just get carried away from my story?

The Black Magicians were on a power trip and they were certainly not interested in having an intellectual prove them wrong. Argumentation and Theses wasn’t a field where they could compete, as their propaganda lacked nuance, and appeal to reason — and it would really fall apart very fast if I attacked it.

They would most likely just scoff at me, but had I insisted too much on being seen and known as a Contrarian Apologist, they would have me killed. That was a measure of their pride, and the threat I represented to it — because the Cult as a whole never engaged in assassination of public figures.

The Witches’ pride was too entangled in a bizarre web of beliefs about Astral Poisons and Multiple Bodies that they cared to always reproduce — so it was easier to spread rumours, ascribing natural phenomena to Black Magic, than it would be to argue away the abject failure of their efforts to silence me with Dark Powers.

And so, the pride of men saved your life once again.

Lucifer

An apparent murder plot was contrary to their agenda — ‘a fate worse than death’ was the motto employed more by the Cult, as the Church was really done when you were executed, and then they mostly provided you with a Holy Funeral. They didn’t make claims on your soul, only your body, and at times, your possessions.

The Religious were eager to have me in their pocket. I didn’t choose to side with them against the Warlocks, even though the temptation of the things they could offer me was palpable and real. Had I sided with the Church, and written for them as an Apologist against the Black Magicians, they would have given me a glorious career — exposure to powerful people, the true men of renown, the Christian Kings.

But I rather chose my hideout.

I understood they loved nothing more than gathering and nursing amongst their ranks illustrious public figures, building them, and then using us for nefarious agenda when we weren’t anymore in a position to dissent, once they had us fully in their pocket.

It was a slavery system in the finest clothes, dining with the finest people.

I could have gotten rich this way.

The printing press owner was a Baelzebub type of figure.

A fat crooked funny little man who — as far as he was concerned, he printed anything. And I mean — anything.

By the daylight, he was reproducing official manuscripts and shaking hands with university mentors, and once the night fell, he kept busy his printing press with everything from slanderous pamphlets, to pornography, to scandalous pulp fiction.

I attended a great many nighttime gatherings with him, and the Writers of the Night.

Some of them drew direct sympathies from me; the slander writers derived pleasure often by maintaining a completely respectable daylight persona as a reputed noble, or a scholar, engaging in a low life type of pursuit that was really, as a whole, an act of blasphemy against their own fine upbringing and culture. Society’s need to let out the Lowest of the Low, the Domain of the Devil, was once again obvious to me. These parties were really a highlight of my life, that I dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, for I was privileged to see clearly the two sides of the coin that rules this world, and how that coin was traded. I saw why people will be always attracted to the glory and the renown of the golden lettering and finest binding, by completely opposite lusts, driven to the gratification of vice that was provided by the forbidden presses.

But, in the end, I chose no one.

I never met a single reader of mine, after I entrusted my manuscript to Baelzebub. He sent it to the New World on ships — a lucrative way, he said, for him to feed new markets, perhaps because the foreign always came with a promise of something alluring, it opened the mind to belief.

That was marketing, and I was instantly tired of it.

‘The Mechanics of Hell and the Errors of the Black Magicians’ was the title of my book — and even that was a lie. It had to be, because it low-key exposed also the errors of religion as well, but putting the words ‘Errors of Religion’ on a book cover would have cost me dear life.

Had I been a different kind of man, I would have done it. Begging them to employ expert investigators who would have found me. Ensuring a big public arrest, and a big public trial. I would have gotten banished, and was stripped of all possessions, and exiled.

Oddly — if I sought a death of infamy, I couldn’t have it this way either. The Religious couldn’t execute me for similar reasons.

If I refused to retract the problematic passages of my book, they would rather torture me, and force me to recant in public, while still needing me to look healthy and sane for the show. The use of brute force against intellectuals was so highly frowned upon it would have drawn the wrath of the nobility. The Warlocks needed to convince the cult they silenced me with their Black Magic powers, and the Religious needed to convince the public that they simply defeated me intellectually, and convinced me of the errors of my ways. They would try to recruit me, and if they couldn’t, they would have me exiled.

Why go to such lengths, you ask, when you can just burn the books and execute the authors?

The answer lies in the Black Lodge politics, which I became convinced revolved around infamy more than anything else. A public execution of an unrepentant intellectual by the Church would have, in fact, created a victory for the Warlocks, who were always waiting for opportunities to spread rumours. They would use the public scandal to get into somebody’s pockets. There was always some noble just eager enough to know what perks did the Devil offer? and such trials brought attention to it.

Talking produced demand for reading, so if I was jailed for blasphemy for writing too sympathetically about Black Magic, what would inevitably happen is there would appear a demand to read what I had written — after all copies have been confiscated.

The Cult would probably produce a fake alleged copy.

Somebody from the Church would get their hand fast on it, seeing that this propagandistic writing is way worse than my intellectual pursuits — so in holy terror, they would leak my book, hoping that this will fix things.

Do you see where I am going with this?

Lucifer

The Cult would alter the material to appear more authentic, and release the ‘True and Original Version’ including a back story about how I was birthed by a Secret Witch, and was, in fact, one of them.

Nervous representative of the justice system, not knowing what to do, at that point, would pressure me to write an affidavit, proclaiming I was not the author, and that I stole the entire manuscript from someone who is no longer living, seeking vainglory. Under this pretense, I would be released with a formal fine, quite likely chose exile…

Looking at my book, I foresaw all of this in my head. ‘Infamy’ kept reappearing in every iteration of the story.

I chose instead to commit my findings to the shady pamphlet dealer who saw the perfect opportunity in selling the abroad as an exotic curiosity. It will reach very few people, somewhere far. Somebody will read it, and then, I will be forgotten.

It was enough for me — and to do anything else would mean to betray all I have learned in that life about the Temptations the endless Rationalizations men go to, in Denial of their Basic Lust.

And so that’s why I’ll never write a book in this lifetime — that book has already been written. I wrote it for myself then, and a few random souls, who, perhaps, thought they stumbled upon a real gem. Perhaps they thought I was ma. Or boring.

I never got to know.

I chose to forgo the vainglory when I put a fake name on it, and it was loaded on the ships under the cover of the night.

Its title was THE MECHANICS OF HELL AND THE ERRORS OF THE BLACK MAGICIANS.

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