While All Is New, All

Wherever He Goes, Whatever He Does, He Will Always See That Word: Murder—immortally Inscribed Upon The Pediment Of That Vast Slaughterhouse—humanity.

Sheep Run To The Slaughterhouse, Silent And Hopeless, But At Least Sheep Never Vote For The Butcher Who Kills Them Or The People Who Devour Them. More Beastly Than Any Beast, More Sheepish Than Any Sheep, The Voter Names His Own Executioner And Chooses His Own Devourer, And For This Precious "right" A Revolution Was Fought.

The Universe Appears To Me Like An Immense, Inexorable Torture-garden…passions, Greed, Hatred, And Lies; Social Institutions, Justice, Love, Glory, Heroism, And Religion: These Are Its Monstrous Flowers And Its Hideous Instruments Of Eternal Human Suffering.

Nothing Comes At All -- Never Anything. And I Cannot Accustom Myself To That. It Is This Monotony, This Absolute Fixity In Life, That Is The Hardest Thing For Me To Endure. I Should Like To Go Away From Here. Go Away? But Where And How? I Do Not Know, And I Stay.

You're Obliged To Pretend Respect For People And Institutions You Think Absurd. You Live Attached In A Cowardly Fashion To Moral And Social Conventions You Despise, Condemn, And Know Lack All Foundation.