Saturday 4 August 2007


I am filled with a malice before unbeknownst to me. My only means of describing it is, once again, and unsurprisingly, to use the words of another. In this case I shall use the words of Camus to describe my schadenfreude. The Fall, the O'Brien translation at page 48:

From that moment onwards, without really intending it, I began, in fact, to mortify her in every way. I would give her up and take her back, force her to give herself at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places, treat her so brutally, in every respect, that eventually I attached myself to her as I imagine the jailer is bound to his prisoner. And this kept up till the day when, in the violent disorder of painful and constrained pleasure, she paid tribute aloud to what was enslaving her. That very day I began to move away from her. I have forgotten her since.

Ahh, but it wouldn't be unintentional for me. No, I intend and moreover I would relish perpetrating such torture. Not that I am or would or could. But for some reason this disgusting possibility is to me right now most appealing. I know not from whence or wherefore this malice arises but it's here, hidden just here beneath the surface. Disguised by flowery words, mostly not my own; concealed by my claim of nicety, my actions to support it. Am I a judge-penitent? No. I'm just a man, just like every man. My selfloathing is moderated by this thought; all men are this and worse. I don't just loathe myself, therefore, but all of mankind.

The masculine reference here is not limiting, but nor is it coincidental. All people are this, but men the worse, it would seem. Even if not, unbridled and indiscriminate hatred needn't be justified to you, Gladys. Fuck you.

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