The wretchedness. Sometimes, I despise this world so much. Have you ever heard of that: world-hatred? Have you ever hated everything? Have you ever hated yourself as part of everything?
What if I said yes?
Everything, philosopher – who else talks of everything? And only a philosopher could hate everything …
Maybe I read philosophy to find company in the other people who hate everything.
Adolescent. It’s adolescent. What don’t you hate, philosopher?
I’m supposed to say you, aren’t I? Maybe … I hate myself for liking you.
So you like me, philosopher. Fancy that.
But I hate myself for it. That’s the point.
Don’t you hate it? Don’t you hate it, sometimes? Don’t you feel that it’s all evil?
I think that it’s my fault, that it’s all evil. I think it’s my shadow, falling over everything.
Why do you think everything’s poisoned?
Because it’s poisoned.
Why do you think there are lies everywhere?
Because there are lies everywhere.
There’s no world but this one. And in this world, we’re nothing. There are great machines, grinding. And they’ll grind us up.
Will they?
The great technological machines. The great natural machines. They’re no different.
Mother nature. Mother machine …
Nature can’t generate meaning out of itself. Nothing! It’s a desert. And machines …
We mustn’t be fooled by nature. Even by fake nature. We mustn’t be seduced.
Why mustn’t we? And what’s wrong with being seduced? Why are you scared, philosophy?
We’ve got to break the spell.
What spell?
The natural spell.
Philosophy’s against nature. I get it.
It’s all – disgusting.
You’re like some kind of puritan.
The universe of death, right: William Blake called it that. All this. Permanent catastrophe.
Quoting: The redemption cannot be realised without dread and ruin.
What redemption?
Work in Progress 