How I oft long to be an ancient vagabond, a malignant beggar…or, better yet, a carpenter ant. Oblivious to the denigration of their toil, to the souring of their labor. Where is the misery of a work lost to eternity? A true majesty of ignorance, and likewise the bee. That is the plague of consciousness, a maladaptive reverie.
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I am akin to a Plato whilst bedridden……or perhaps an Oppenheimer.
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The loathing I feel for every face dissipates in the presence of speech.
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It is curious the dissonance in the words of Marx. The maven of the dialectic of class, one wonders how his astuteness failed to translate to the reign of the proletariat—a flytrap in the mire of an insurrection.
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Melancholia can be alleviated—fleetingly—in the tremors of a subway wagon.
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The identity of humanity, rather, its essence, is in numbers.
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There is a certain admiration owed to mankind for its unabashed reverence of concrete.
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There is nothing more revolting than my infatuation with apathy…
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The prophets we have lost to history due to the erection of the asylum…
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If we have learned anything from contemporary existence, it is that man—that indolent beast—is begotten merely to sit.
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Apathy is the best policy. Who could refute this claim?
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Against the awareness of my transience lies an unrelenting conviction in the certainty of my immortality. Perhaps, though, this is simply the condition for all that respires…
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Firing squad is preferable to rural living.
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Kleos aphthiton—imperishable glory. Embalmed in martyrdom; is there a greater agony than the untimeliness of birth? Jesus, the Christ, offered his body. His reward? The consecration of the self; the transfiguration from man to ideal. Plato, that selfless artist, venerated his master in the annals of history, relinquishing the immortality of his soul for the imperishability of another’s. Hitler embodied malevolence, that monstrosity, and transcended it to the apotheosis of malignance—a sacrifice of the ethical in exchange for the personification of its antithesis. Besieging the perspicuous, they act as wraiths—shadows of a former order: the body…the soul…the villainous. Glory submits both to God and to Babylon.
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The resolution of the paradox between the State and humankind is antinatalism.
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Could the übermensch have understood—no, better yet, embraced the steed in Turin?
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Kindness costs nothing. Indeed, but neither does apathy.
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Is there anything more conducive to senescence than the advent of the screen?
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I am an evangelist for amorality…yet only for myself.
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“For me you are nothing but – my food, even as I too am fed upon and turned to use by you. We have only one relation to each other, that of usableness, of utility, of use.”1 Has there yet to be a greater epitome of man?
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I often catch myself daydreaming over the vitality of an immolate…
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There is a certain satisfaction to be garnered from the disappointment of others.
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“Property is theft.” Yes, but only for those who have none.
Endnotes
Max Stirner, The Ego and Its Own, ed. David Leopold (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 263.
Bibliography
Stirner, Max. The Ego and Its Own. Edited by David Leopold. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995.