The original text, source and meaning of the phrase "Better Caesar than nothing."

The phrase was engraved on a sword owned by Julius Caesar Borgia, born in 1476 and died in 1507. Borgia, born in 1476, died in 1507. Wind and roses, and poison. This nobleman from an old Spanish noble family, then known as "the most beautiful man in Europe", but because of syphilis disfigurement of the flower lover and wear a mask, behind the mask cool and cold eyes, watching the birth of his great and strange times. In the Renaissance, the snobbish, vulgar and powerful bourgeoisie awakened the Greek gods and began their own history of binding the world with coins, while all the others stumbled with their swords and cut through the transparent film of God that had covered the world, and began their own independent histories built on the ruins of a void of reality, including Caesar Borgia, the famous Vulgarian, who was the most famous of all the Vulgarians, and the most famous of the Vulgarians. Borgia, the famous Duke of Valentino. Caesar Borgia. Borgia, the illegitimate son of Pope Alexander VI, historically known for his power plays and indulgences, a graduate of the University of Pisa who had studied law, anthropology and theology, was enfeoffed to Louis XII and given the domain of Valentino, was Louis XII's cousin's husband and the brother-in-law of the King of Navarre, and became the lord and ruler of most of Italy before the end of his short life at the age of 32. He was the brilliant archetype of the monarch so admired in Machiavelli's Monarchia, and his sister Lucretia was the most famous and talented beauty of the late fifteenth century, while at the same time so notorious that she was openly referred to by the Italians as "the Pope's wife, daughter, and daughter-in-law," and Caesar Borgia was the only one who could have made him as famous for this reason as he was for his own. Borgia killed another brother, Giovanni, who was also a rival for the sister he had fallen in incestuous love with, and in 1498 Giovanni was stabbed six times and his body was fished out of the Tiber River, presumably without a thought that he would end up like Lucretia's husbands. He killed his brother for the sake of women, his brother for the sake of power, and his eldest brother, the Duke of Gandia, like the lords, bishops, and opponents, did not escape the poison of his sword because of his position as flag officer of the Holy See and supreme military governor. Only that colorful, indulgent, and elegant age could have produced this poisonous duke; only this Caesar could have washed the age in which he existed with bloody intrigues, ambitious talents, spirited passions, and cold gloom, like a poisonous, dazzling, and brilliant flower of evil, born in the clear, clean, and fresh air, and transforming the nights of the cities of Italy with its perfume and poisonous sap. brutality and vileness, and trampled under foot mercilessly all the civilizations and virtues that floated with a heavy air of bookishness and womanhood, and gave them their truest voice. 1503 Caesar and his father were poisoned at the same time, and his father died, and he was lucky enough to survive, and the thing that followed was the instantaneous disintegration of all the great achievements that had just been built up. The Duke of Valentino lost his dominions, and was forced to take refuge in his wife's uncle, the King of Navarre, and I will not speak of anything else, but of the many spears that were thrust through Caesar Borgia's back, in the shadowy marshes of 1507, and which were used to kill him. Borgia's back, let's just say that the world turned to that moment and there was no more room for him, he had to die. The above is my clumsy narration of Duke Valentino's life, while writing and listening to the intense music, my mind suddenly flashed back to a cell phone commercial I saw when I was a child, the image is a handsome young man, a slight moustache, a lonesome look, in the midst of a lot of red men and green women, the background voice of Cao Cao's "like the morning dew, the last day of the bitter much" poem. "I know I'll never see that ad again. I knew I would never see that ad again, lost among the coke, fast food and condoms produced on the assembly line. I remember another commercial that was also impressive, featuring two men with guns, while a beautiful woman's tears flowed along with dewdrops from roses. I also knew that that commercial would never be seen again either, drowned in the same stench of a thousand fads and lies. For countless lonely nights I watched over the void of sky and the quiet air of my old home and wondered if the world without Caesar Borgia had any language. Borgia's world has no language, yes, it is full of the hustle and bustle of modernity, where overindulgent flesh is like plastic, inscribed with symbols of discipline and administration, and where there is bending the knee during the day to lies and hard labor. Many characters have disappeared, and even if there is a trace of them, they have been formatted and raped by various theories that advocate leveling the playing field, and have become another symbol or fad to be assembled by mediocre people into a flat consumerist era. The wheel marks left by the car driving over the highway, like the scar on Deng Nanjia's forehead, another Italian who almost died in a duel with someone because of jealousy, are the remnants of Duke Valentino's style, which will become more and more blurred and be covered by the cozy and happy cacophony in the modern Kentucky Fried Chicken chain stores. I, like most people, ate ready-to-eat fast-packaged food riddled with fashionable lies, buried my head in the neatly narrowed bay of the corresponding industrialized, assembly-line workroom, and ate chicken wings and chicken thighs from the equally neatly ordered, narrow bay, accompanied by a succinct ease of self-congratulation and a loneliness that was only skin-deep. I rejoice, while anesthetizing my nerves, and I am despondent, while standing alone in a high place and lighting a cigarette. The river of the past turns a thousand times and then stops in my body and immediately dissolves into nothing, causing me to wake up years later to realize how absurd and ridiculous the so-called tracing of personal history is. What does it mean to have a personal history of one's own life?

The world is densely packed with

railways, highways and flight routes, countless days, nights and autumn/winter cycles, I live in a corner, a drop in the ocean, calmly chewing on a street corner of beef minced meat skewers, usually holding a knife for peeling apples, and watching highly simulated digital images of blood bursting out of the flesh when the blade cuts into the flesh in the movie theater. It's better to be nothing than Caesar. It's a great saying that many things don't really contradict each other, many plausible phenomena, coated with the venomous juice of lies, reality defined by all sorts of babbling and arguing theories of white-water perspectives that become so truly realistic, the world and its reflections defined by our artificially cowardly and self-deceiving acceptance of the world and its reflections by habitual acceptance of ill-intentioned words. The fact that the bloodshed occurred in the bright springtime would have revealed the truth of the world's true nature, and I didn't want to and couldn't afford to think too much about it, sleeping peacefully every plain night, and going to work the next morning as a matter of habit. But isn't it? The absurdity of the moment is omnipresent, like a vast lake drowning us, making us feel like floating puppets, looking at beautifully decorated magazines and surfing the Internet after tea, and one day in 2011, I wrote these words, with the restlessness of my thoughts and the tossing and turning of the music in my earbuds. There is no more Lucretia in the world, only a myriad of replaceable women and their healthy, voluptuous flesh, an impotent bestiality of thoughts and passions that crisscross the brightly lit and shadowy subway with coins. I wore tight pants and my body was the result of multiple scars from encounters with a wide variety of women, scars that ached when the weather was cloudy and rainy, scars from the emotional bondage of possession and hatred then left behind. But I felt an inexplicable pleasure in my weariness, because, they too have scars, and they too ache on rainy days, and their husbands and lovers can't change that fact. Better nothing than Caesar.

History is written by the victors, and the birthmarks of history inscribed on us are a mixture of blood and cruelty and intrigue. Putting an internal lens inside us, one would see countless faces twisted by smiles in the midst of swords and poisons, flesh folded in interlaced folds in shadowy castles and claustrophobic city sewers, and beams of material irradiation focused on one spot would see the ecstasy and loneliness of orgasm accompanied by the hissing of all the plants of that fading African jungle. Plants have pain too, but the cries are inaudible to other creatures, so let's extract our sex organs from between a woman's legs and sit calmly alone in a corner somewhere to think about it. One of the paradoxes is that human beings cannot eat inorganic matter to sustain life, must be extremely hypocritical to escape the fact of bloody killing between visions of gastronomic delights, and must compile all sorts of myths and legends traditional histories, etc., to deceive themselves in order to sleep peacefully. The entire civilization of the earth, of whatever color, is the self-record and literature of murderous criminals, and all philosophy, history, science, art and its countless archival volumes, dead or alive, is a crime, which must be confronted with the fact that it is the most basic act of nature, and that without which mankind could not live and survive. A basic fact is that the lions in nature completely blindly follow the inevitable blind laws of nature, will not consciously abstain from killing, in order to maintain a good ecological balance for better survival; and human beings beyond the natural place is that they will be using modern ideas, computers and the so-called civilization, to elegantly maintain a good ecological balance of killings and rapes. Seeing the elegant dresses of women, we should not forget the dagger on the outside of their thighs, which is a sharp weapon made by human beings, and the difference between it and men is that it is not as blatant as men's guns that they carry in the marketplace, and it is labeled with the word of justice and attached to a variety of historical and cultural explanations, and this dagger, which has been, is now, and will always be stained with the blood of both animals and human beings. It is better to be nothing than Caesar. In the modern streets, restaurants and movie theaters is Caesar? Borgia's swords whistling past the remnants, the shadows of the chi spears that stabbed him in the spine, realistic but highly unreal, and what remains is the Cantarella poison concealed in the ring worn by the inferior Lucretia, the inferior poison is not real, and that makes us weak. The archetype of not being Caesar, rather than nothingness, has faded into the vast archive of volumes and files of the post-Renaissance, where fire and sword, lust and killing, honor and immortality have been discarded and thrown in a modern-day warm and fuzzy whorehouse bathroom, and flushed clean with a gallon of water. I've fallen into books and polemics, wandered the edges of many cities and villages, like a lone beast in the jungle, through different symbols of erotic violence, all absurd and wrong. In the open space of a university college in the south, I once saw a sexy, beautiful older girl, her full, long thighs exploding out of her shorts and exposed to the hot southern sun, playing on a small motorcycle toy car I hadn't seen before, with loud laughter and the clear sound of burning fuel. She was followed by a young man riding the same sleek machine, and I looked at her for a long time then, while calmly telling myself that the sword and poison and loneliness in this college girl's eyes would, in the near future, be chipped and worn away by the handsome young man who was behind her and would likely become her husband, a cozy piece of flesh in bed and a numbing machine in the kitchen. There's nothing to it all, it's okay, there should even be a vicious pleasure in it, who cares? The stench of everyday life rotting in the swamp, the odor of a banal henhouse, the body of Caesar dead in the swamp long gone, the world without Duke Valentino, what I hear in my ears is the pathos sharp and hoarse music, remembering the countless nights in bars ruined by madness, ruined by madness of the mind. Not for Caesar, rather for nothingness. I think, if necessary, Caesar? Borgia would have killed his father, for the sake of power and fame and love of his sister, and transcendence and immortality, and the turbulent soul behind the cold mask would have hung the head of Alexander VI on a spike in a piazza in some brooding Italian city, and the complexity of the extreme emotions, of his father, of his family, with the Renaissance as a stage backdrop for what may be the world's most unprecedented love-hate relationship of a family, is open to the The ultimate in gaudy, malevolent flowers, unprecedented splendor and elegance, the Greek gods in this garden of nothingness, drunken revelry and laughter, and the deafening sound of the clash of swords and iron bars in the shadows. Not for Caesar, but for nothingness. Trying to write this essay as a stirring and reverberating movement, under the narrow polluted skies of this South, in the cloisters of my old home where the scent of my ancestors echoes, rationality is sexually impotent and apathetic, and can only be barely expressed in these fragmented words. The world and everyday life, the paranoid and schizophrenic gaze, either transcendent or humble, skimming above the subtle traps and sweet lies that carry the stench of decay from the neighborhood sewers, are the mundane funerals of lost courage, haphazardly delivered in a couple of painless and hypocritical eulogies. Intimacy, carnal gratification, timid vanity, art and drugs, tourist pastimes and fashionable clothing have all become natural and sinister anesthetics to dissipate the fatigue and disappointing emptiness of our deadening toil. All kinds of cultural history or culture and art, in fact, is the echo of the sword of each nation or individual battle, or the self-compassion after defeat, is the gorgeous and dirty music of genetic struggle, is the poison of mutual conspiracy, there is no other truth, must admit this point. But that was in the past, now there are only timid conspiracies and petty struggles, the bourgeoisie in control of the world, the bourgeoisie, full of brass, once heroic and turning the world upside down, but destroyed by its own incorrigible and fatalistic mercenaryism, mediocrity and philistinism, the search for so-called laws of history in the absence of contingency, the futile jests and the feeble anesthesia of the self, the middle-class middle-class passions and adultery. And then there are mobs and rabble like plagues of locusts, with all kinds of manifestos or impostor theories full of envy, cowardice, and claims to equal happiness, chattering and clamoring, but in reality it is earthy greed and corruption, stealing and self-enrichment in the name of righteousness, and under the stones of the rabble the last aristocrat disappears into the nothingness of time. The aristocracy is corrupt, I know, but this flat, powerless world of fried chicken wings and backstabbing prostitutes just lacks that aristocracy, Caesar? Borgia is dead, dead with a cowardly spear, and now, the intrigue is the same, but with less courage passion and grandeur. All the history that passes, the history that my own mind organizes, all the imagery and the flowing winds of the aftermath, it's my despairing impotence that goes wild and unbridled in daydreams, isn't it? After the vacation, I will be like everyone else, well-dressed to go to work and work by the book, and the nauseating mettle of calm, the anesthesia of spring flowers, autumn and moon and Tang and Song poems. Depression, depression's glass of water always trying in vain to break on the hard concrete floor, in the illusion woven intentionally or unintentionally, in the chance to see a figure with a sword sprinting by amidst the roaring sounds and clamor of airplanes, stirring music and lust, outdated capes hissing in the wind, falling into the traps of language. It is better to be nothing than Caesar.