Beta NF: EIE [Ni-ENFj (C-EIE) or (EIE-Ne)] or IEI [Ni-INFp (C-IEI) or (IEI-Ne)]
My ex-boyfriend thought Marilyn Manson V.I.'d as an ENFp (IEE).
Here is one picture:
Here are some quotes:
- from The Long Hard Road Out of Hell by Marilyn Manson (with Neil Strauss); p. v: But someday, in a stronger age than this decaying, self-doubting present, he must yet come to us, the redeeming man, of great love and contempt, the creative spirit whose compelling strength will not let him rest in any aloofness or any beyond, whose isolation is misunderstood by the people as if it were flight from reality -- while it is only his absorption, immersion, penetration into reality, so that, when he one day emerges again into the light, he may bring home the redemption of this reality; its redemption from the curse that the hitherto reigning ideal has laid upon it. The man of the future, who will redeem us not only from the hitherto reigning ideal but also from that which was bound to grow out of it, the great nausea, the will to nothingness, nihilism; this bell-stroke of noon and of the great decision that liberates the will again and restores its goal to the earth and his hope to man; this Antichrist and Antinihilist; this victor over God and nothingness -- he must come one day.
-- Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals
- p. ix: INTRODUCTION
Outside it was raining cats and barking dogs. Like an egg-born offspring of collective humanity, in sauntered Marilyn Manson. It was obvious -- he was beginning to look and sound a lot like Elvis.
David Lynch -- New Orleans 2:50 A.M.
- p. 49 [4 (The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Rejection Letters)]: I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life.
-- George Orwell, "Why I Write"
- pp. 58-61 [poem by Marilyn Manson (circa 1988)]:
Lying in bed contemplating
tomorrow, simply meditating,
I stare into a single empty
spot, and I notice a penetrating
of two eyes looking up and
down and at various odd angles
secretly inspecting me; and I
feel my stare tugged away
from the blank screen in
front of my eyes and directed
at the eight empty beer cans
forming an unintentional pyramid.
And I close my lids to think--
How many hours have passed
since I constructed such an
immaculate edifice of tin?
Or did I create it all?
Was it the watchers?
I open my eyes and return my stare to the pyramid.
But the pyramid has now
become a flaming pyre, and
the face within is my own.
What is this prophecy that
comes to me like a delivery boy,
cold and uncaring of its message,
asking only for recognition?
But I will not fall prey
to this revelation of irrelevance
I will not recognize this perversion
I will not.
I hurl my pillow at the
infernal grave, as if to save my
eyes from horrific understanding,
and I hear the hollow clang
of seven empty beer cans,
Was it fate that left
one to stand?
Why does this solitary tin soldier
stand in defiance to my
pillow talk of annihilation?
Then, for some odd, idiotic,
most definitely enigmatic reason
the can begins to erupt in a barrage of
Does he lament because his
friends and family are gone
or that he has no one
with which to spawn?
They were gone. . .
But no, that's not the reason.
It is a baby's cry of his mother's
The screaming fear of abandonment.
And this wailing, screaming, whining
causes the dead cans to rise
and I can't believe my eyes,
that this concession of
beverage containers is chanting
in a cacophany of shallow rebellion
to my Doctrine of Annihilation
that was discussed in my
Summit of the Pillow (which is now
lost among the stamping feet of the
I am afraid, afraid of these
cans, these nihilistic rebels.
As the one approaches -- the baby cryer,
I suppose my fear now
escalates, constructing a wall
around my bed, trying to shut
but without a doubt
the cryer casually climbs what
I thought was a Great Wall
not unlike the one in Berlin.
He begins to speak.
His words flow cryptically from
the hole in his head
like funeral music: deep, resonant,
He says to me: "You must
surrender to your dreams it's just.
We sit all day planning for your attendance
and upon arrival you
In awe, I nod involuntarily
and he closes my eyes.
He gives me a pair of aphrodisiac sunglasses,
and I fall asleep in the shade.
Asleep in a field of hyacinth and jade.
When I crawl out of my sleep
I get up,
my hair a tangled mess of golden locks.
I enter the kitchen,
and go to the icebox.
I pull out a single can of beer,
and as I begin to drink
The weeping of an abandoned infant.
Here are the songs: