the monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of dung heap, but for some reason they should WANT roses. for some reason or another man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish it he will wade through blood. He will debauch himself with ideas, he will reduce himself to a shadow if for only one second of his life he can close his eyes to the hideousness of reality...And out of the endless torment and misery no miracle comes forth, no microscopic vestige of relief. Only ideas, pale attenuated ideas which have been fattened by the slaughter; ideas which come forth like bile, like the guts of a pig when the carcass is ripped open.
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