A protective hatredctparaben-free face and hand cream

I want to say hatred and violence; not as the blissful pontificating conventional baba cools moralizing fools see it. No, mine, my hatred, the one that is mine and yet that I feel, sense, imagine as potentially so shared and universal. It must be said that my own hatred doesn't do much harm, not at all I think; not enough, certainly.

And yet it is very tangible; quite palpable and real. It is the hatred of those who refuse it, reject it, claim it to be inadequate, childish, inappropriate; the hatred of moderates who turn out to be mostly cowards - but who cares about heroic glory today, except for others, even more imbecilic and truly hateful kamikazes?

But it is also the hatred of the extremes that always advocate a form of conquering virility, whether it claims to be the right of peoples or of capital, of the proletariat determined to regain a utopian grip on its destiny or of a host of racisms all mixed up in the same ignorance. Stupidity is a torch that we must carry high.

As Victor says of the spider and the nettle, not Frankenstein but the good old Hugo, I love hate because we hate it.

Hate for who decides what?

Too many decision-makers for too many followers. I am an exhausted slave, humiliated by too many laws that overtake me and crush me, claiming to protect me. Armour too heavy to preserve me from the risk of living lightly. It is impossible to hold the helm in this dull storm. Nothing in the distance. In my ears, the clatter of what is not heard. So, What good would war do me?