Part Four



"Certain organisms are born destined to become prey to drugs. There is a correction mechanism without which they are incapable of getting in touch with the exterior. They float and vegetate between the dog and the wolf. For them the world continues to be a ghost until some substance comes to give it substance. It is possible that these unfortunates live their whole lives without ever finding a remedy. It is also possible that the remedy they discover will end up killing them…"

Jean Cocteau



Come on, populace! Face your fears now and see how far you have strayed from nature. However much you gripe and grumble, you can rediscover your true self through the path you pursue. Nature will only allow you to return to its world after it has tormented and mutilated you a little… And, I have to say, that is no less than you deserve. 


Wake up! The time has come to step outside your neighbourhood, beyond the herd, and reassess your personality, your passions, your dreams and the fruits of your sexual and commercial labours. The time is long past for raising your daughters as frigid virgins, hypocrites, and sexual sceptics. For many decades women have submitted to self-denial, they have cursed and trembled at the idea of their own clitoris, and interpreted male advances as aggressive, blasphemous, diabolical acts. For many decades women have mutated suddenly from naïve, wide-eyed ingénues into harsh, cold shrews. They faked orgasms, faked desire and faked Spartan fidelity. They sought to differentiate themselves from common prostitutes, but the content of their lives was no different. Brothel whores and wife whores; all casualties to the same sexual chauvinism, the same rigidity, the same conflict within their own flesh.

So now that we want to revolutionise the schools, raise healthy children and affirm Love and Life, it has become necessary to conjure up a new woman: a new mother, a new lover, a new teacher, even a new prostitute. Cast out the porcelain doll, the embalmed mummy, the seductive goddess, the submissive slave, the castrating mother and the servile secretary. Leave no trace of that risible wench who was always complicit in the creation of this social farce. We must invent a new woman, a natural woman, a woman who orgasms, rages, and is willing to do whatever is necessary. Hey, hey now! Settle down, men! Why criticise women when they are born of the same cause? None of that misogyny! For just as we need to invent a new woman, we also need to invent a new man. For this revolution to be truly enlightened it is absolutely essential to manifest a new man, a new father, a new lover, a new teacher, a new Don Juan. From now on, even the most mediocre of revolutions will require the fundamental annihilation of the servile little man, the coward, the incompetent, the arsehole, the sex obsessive, the mother’s boy, the boss, the bishop, and every man that is willing to do anything for power. With these alienated male and female relics in their graves, we would end the relationships that populate this planet with so many chaotic and bestial creatures.

When you come across a preacher of this new ‘perversion’, you may feel the urge to stamp them out, to destroy them. Don’t hold back, I say. Go right ahead! But never forget that the most militant dictator resides within you, and that is where you need to begin your revolution. In your actions, feelings, and emotions you exist as an oppressor. It will be useless to try and eliminate oppression in society if you only give yourself up intellectually. Do not think I am merely apologising for individualism. No, I only wish to emphasise the contradiction implicit in your speeches, in parliaments and in bus queues.

Incredibly, you are in favour of mass education, of liars, of the pharmaceutical industry, of indigenous acculturation, of the creation of cults and macabre fanaticism. The veins on your neck throb as you speak, and you sweat in a rage, convinced your dogma is the absolute truth. You have assimilated all social fallacies, and now you cannot tell the difference between an ant and an elephant.

You have turned hunger into a business; you use blindness as an opportunity to sell spectacles, and cancer as a means to market cobalt, placebos and surgery. You hijack education to peddle ideologies, and religion to instil metaphysical dread, and use law and justice to shovel political crap. You have degraded life into some cheap theatrical play. You know all this, yet you stay hidden behind the scenes, dispatching from your office, acting as if you have no part in this sleazy show. You appear oblivious to every despicable exploitation. You pay a bureaucratic visit to an overpopulated prison as if you are visiting a Monastery of blessed souls or Buddhas. You sanction the murder of your enemies, the exile of your opposition and the marginalisation of all those who see your true agenda. I picture you as a time-travelling extraterrestrial, sent to save the world by a holy Neanderthal. How much longer will you feed this madness, populace?

You are a typical ex-junkie; you were once proud of snorting cocaine and ‘devouring’ the writings of Hermann Hesse. You would never leave the house without your beloved copy of

Steppenwolf under your arm. One day, in the height of drunkenness, you recited this paragraph:

"I saw myself dragging across the desert of the outer world, like a weary pilgrim, loaded with the many superfluous books I had written, and all the articles and essays that I had published; followed by an army of readers obliged to swallow entirely. My God! And above it all was Adam and the apple, and the whole of hereditary guilt. All this had to be paid for, and only then, could the question arise as to whether there was anything personal left, anything of my own left; or whether everything that I had done and all its consequences were merely the empty foam of the sea and a meaningless ripple in the flow of what was now over and done."

But all your reading seems to have been in vain. It did not deflect you from lurching between disgrace and megalomania, between good and evil, between delusions of omnipotence and the conviction that you are worth absolutely nothing. Tomorrow, you may understand that joie de vivre is accumulated after gradual development of personal knowledge and feelings. A regime of repetitive bodily movements will produce an athletic and muscular physique, but beauty is only realised by liberated and pleasurable motion. In essence, you are beauty! Without that essence, one cannot survive this lunatic asylum. Without beauty, anger prevails and proliferates; it infuses your gestures and political goals. The light of your lamp burns down into its ashes, and your red right hand slaps a curse across the face of the child who requests a kiss. By amassing beauty you will achieve the strength required of the men of tomorrow, keeping yourself far from the cruel fear and Shakespearian villainies that, until now, have conquered your insides.

Stand up! Raise your fist toward the stars and release that stifled protest, that suffocated rebelliousness that diminishes you. Did you never dare ask the question that Schiller asked:

"To what end are we such barbarians?" Yes, we are barbarians that awake daily from a nightmare and inexorably follow in the footsteps of prisoners. Fear, self-contempt and guilt are the ghosts that make your ‘soul’ go crazy. My little friend, you shit your pants when confronted by any one of them.

Once I pitched my tent close to yours in an enchanting glade, and you regarded me with a wary contempt. You had hoped to have that lake and trees and the whole of nature to yourself that day. You great murderers, great landowners and religious fanatics, you forget that nature is nobody’s property. At night, I could hear your tyrannical tone rising above the rush of the moonlit waterfall, delegating chores to your wife and children as if they were your possessions, as if you had divine dominion over their being. After a few beers you overplayed this comedy, raising your voice so your new neighbours could hear and think you are a real Casanova. But I know you too well populace! You perform all this bullshit to hide the fact that you never had motherly affection, that you are an impotent man, a closet homosexual, a despicable middle-class twit; that you only specialised in gynaecology so you could get your professional, loveless hands on a woman's body.

Every day is the same: you get intoxicated and speak to me with furtive, darting eyes, discussing matters barely of interest even to yourself, your family, your Saturday football crowd or your Sunday church buddies. I observe this as if I am writing the memoirs of a suicide. All your phrases reveal an oppressed child, a reckless teenager, a bandit who throws in his lot at life's casino. The waters run polluted. The butterflies zigzag over empty heads, and the silence of nature swallows the ridiculous confessions of an extinct man. A man without means to rebuild himself from ordinary human tiredness. Why try to deceive yourself? You are – ah, perhaps you will always be – a perfect prototype of the populace.

Politically, your best shot is an expression of desperate nationalism and patriotism. I have often heard this strain of patriotism defended, in all corners of the Earth; an irrational and neurotic defence of traditions and habits that are claimed to be the greatest in the universe. You cling tightly to the rock of old traditions and old mistakes. You fear that you might drown in the profundities of the new and innovative. Yet it is precisely there that you would discover the knowledge that would lead you towards your freedom, and help you escape from this trap where you reign as an ersatz king. Stop being an idiot, you stupid patriot. Open the borders of your country; open your home to every man, no matter how outlandish his worldview. Free yourself of ideologies and sectarianism, lest you end your life in shame, curled up inside your snail-like shell, having learnt nothing, enjoyed nothing, created nothing and been worth nothing. Before it is too late, remember what Cesar Vallejo wrote about one Brazilian fanatic:

"The rigorous Marxists, the fanatical Marxists and the grammatical Marxists pursue the realisation of Marxism, making the social reality that literally proves the theory of Historical Materialism – even if they have to misrepresent the facts and violate the meaning of the events (…) How shameful this orgy of repetitive eunuchs, of those Marxist traitors! Starting from the conviction that Marx is the only philosopher from the past, present and future that scientifically explained the social movement and consequently, once and for all, the Laws of the Human Spirit; your first vital disgrace consists of getting away from the roots of your own creative possibilities, reneging to the condition of a simple Capitalist parrot. According to those fanatics, Marx will be the last revolutionary of all time and after him no other man can create anything. The revolutionary spirit dies with him and his explanation of history contains the final unquestionable word. Nothing can be conceived or produced in life that does not fit into the Marxist formula. All universal reality is nothing more than one perennial and everyday proof of this historical materialistic doctrine. From astral events to the sexual behaviour of a grasshopper, all are just simple reflexes of human economics. To choose whether to laugh or cry at a passerby, they first consult their pocket-sized Capital. When asked if the sky is clear or cloudy, they open their guide to Marxism and answer according to what they read. They live and act as a result of Marxist doctrine. They do not need to make any effort when facing the vast and mutant problems of life. They know that the "master" has saved them from the task and noble responsibility of thinking for themselves, from putting themselves into contact with things."

Ah, populace! For how long will you continue with this sluggish march? For how long will you continue to deliver your empty speeches and defend research that aims only to discover the colour of an amoeba’s ovary? For how long will you remain this public fool, this compulsive fraud, this emancipated ostrich? I escaped from you, yet you continue to lie and boast about old conquests, whilst your wife lives sad and pensive with her fears, only abiding you because you feed her, because you impregnated her, and because you have convinced her that all ‘men’ are like you.

You may never fully understand how responsible you are for turning most women into psychological sluts. A single moment of ‘freedom’ or drunkenness turns them towards red-light practices and the vernacular of brothels. The woman that I live with, the woman that you live with, the women of your friends, uncles and grandfathers – all were indiscriminately induced into a sick infantilism and into forms of prostitution. The world gave the Jews commerce and psychoanalysis, and with these tools they have enslaved it. Women were given nothing but a pussy; they are valued and categorised by that hairy delta between their legs, yet with it they have truly dominated all the buffoons that control the world. I admire and am fascinated by all social, political and corporeal manifestations that invoke disorder and chaos upon you, populace. For we can only begin to find a new route towards a natural aggrandisation, one worthy of our bravery and protests, following your banishment from the planet.

On the peak of a Mexican mountain, deep within a secluded lair, there lives an old witch who prophesises that one day the worms will rise from the earth, will disturb your slumber, and will torment you with a most brutal insomnia, for the magnitude of your crimes.

Apparently you do not suspect that these women, who you take to bed, or violate in the back seat of your car in exchange for money, cigarettes or a plate of food, are enslaved; unemployed and victimised by an oppressive system that you value more than your whole family tree. These women lay down with you and spread their legs for your syphilitic dick, but only in order to survive this Kafkaesque play written by your administration. Yet these women harbour the fantasy that one day, while you are groaning over them like a frantic hyena, they will stab you in the chest with a dagger. I believe that one day they will do so. You deserve it! You and all of your kind; self-satisfied after copulating with a defenceless foreigner, with the daughter of a neighbour, with the wife of a friend, with a servant, or even with a beggar that knocks on your door. How many miserable women did you buy with money, medicine, or cartons of milk? On the day you realise that you have been the oppressor in all of your ‘conquests’, perhaps then your life will be eclipsed and you will feel compelled to put a bullet through your occipital lobe. Yes, I think you should do this, because suicide is the most ‘noble’ escape that most cowards and scoundrels are capable of. However, I suspect you could turn even the act of suicide into a ploy for canonisation. The registry at the morgue must reveal hundreds of idiots that, in their final, shameful act, have found a spotlight in the Academy of Letters.

The clear waters of the river sparkle and effervesce, despite the empty tin cans, the trash and the vomit that emanates from the border of your camp. You look impatiently around for people who think and behave like you, who evade reality and misunderstand existence. You approached me many times, but when I did not offer you a word you regarded me with distrust, as if my silence pierced through your entire history.

Each time your bodyguards pointed out someone that looked like an authentic individual, you immediately began pursuing him, tormenting him, bringing his infamy to a climax with imprisonment, exile and murder. You never understood that lives can be ‘self-made’, that a shout can be born from absolute silence, and that the conscious, lucid and rebellious man is like a virus that can never be completely eradicated. However much you instruct your armies, however much you train your torturers, however barbarous your political and police manoeuvres might be, you will never be free of these men that continue to sacrifice themselves for the impossible. You torturing son-of-a-bitch. Incredibly, the executioners, theologians and ideologists of your regime still do not understand that a single day lived authentically is preferable to a long life of misfortunes, cowardice and perverted vanities, even after all these years. No, you do not understand – as Carlo Cipolla said – that an idiot is an idiot, that twenty idiots are twenty idiots, and that a hundred thousand idiots will form a party, a sect or some such historical force.

Populace, the world knows exactly what you are capable of. They have seen everything you have done and all that you have passed down to your grandchildren. For these reasons I produce this manifesto, to let you know clearly my thoughts on you and how much you have cost the world and its people. I write so that future generations will have unpleasant memories of you, and know that not all of your contemporaries conspired with your idiocies. I detail all your slaughters, catalogue them all, projecting your brazen smile, the inconsolable weeping, and your mask of barbaric animalism upon the walls of history. I pursue and spy on you everywhere you crawl, be it as master or slave, as proxy or pimp of defenceless adolescents. I am there in your parliaments, your cabarets, your schools, your families, your unions, your barracks and your religious temples, infiltrating every act of this pathetic human comedy. I whisper in the ears of your children, your wife, your assistant, your publisher... Do not mistake me for a dreamer, do not think that I am some kind of idealist, seeking to change you at all costs. Far be it from me to accomplish that delirious task! Neither do I await another Hitler to torment you, nor for a resurgence of bubonic plague to flourish in your bones. Oh no! My only desire is to escape from your idiotic company, despite knowing all the places you were born and raised. I know that you never drive far down the roads of the world, that you haven’t the least interest in anything that surrounds you, and even less in the lands beyond.

I see you each night in the same bar, drinking the same brand of vodka, smoking the same Belmont cigarettes and bleating the same worn-out clichés to docile punters who can barely feign interest... Then you stagger home and accost your wife with an alcoholic leer, attack your adolescent son, swallow two or three pieces of meat as if you were a dog, and pass out. Your routine human tragedy was born in some distant place within you, back when you knew yourself as a person... One drinking bout after another, one tragedy after another, far surpassing the work of Euripides.

If only you knew the Moroccan sun! The expanse of mysterious light and heat that blasts across the Sahara! A new world, private, futuristic... centennial elders, their clothes tattered by time... immaculate beards, totemic canes... a miserable hotel, hashish perfuming the longest night and the sunniest afternoon... a Spanish dancer, a thousand Egyptian dancers with their mouths ‘sealed’... the eternal resemblance between the mouth and the cunt... a harem of incorrigible witches... sexual rites in supplication to Mohammed... a sensual caress unlike anything you would have expected from a Muslim hand. Labyrinths where everything is possible! A hopeless crime, marmalade sent to a luxurious Montreal hotel, a half-read book by Bakunin and the ancient trees of Marrakech. A water seller, a swarm of flies hovering over the carcass of a pig, a family impulsively dramatising a fragment of Moorish history. Morocco is a complete curriculum, a delicious delirium that never nauseates. Alleys, whispers in many languages. The spine of a heroic ass that carries half a ton of supplies to an alluring house of infidelity. A street of snake-charmers, merchants selling books and exotic foods, the room of a cheap hotel where death patrols. How can it be that you do not yearn for any of this, populace?

Try to answer me without averting your gaze, without treading your tired and beaten path, without fooling yourself that one can know the world from a postcard, without blaming your monasticism on an endogenous depression, or anything like that. Answer me if you dare, but answer without recourse to your ridiculous box of old tricks that even infants have outgrown. Answer me this: why do you not have the will to know Senegal, Polynesia or the black cats of Ibiza? Why have you never desired to see Formentera or Mykonos, or to live in Calcutta with a graceful Spanish botanist? Why were you never curious about the origins and lives of gypsies, the beginnings of piracy, the natural and solid pillars of anarchism, the roots of nihilism, the simplicity of peasants and the conscience to be unique and take responsibility for the present and future world? Oh, populace! I do wonder if you are not already dead, for only a corpse would not crave to hear the nocturnal jazz of an African American, only a corpse would lack the desire to scale the riskier side of the Andes, to meet the ferocious Xingu natives and to touch the hand of the legendary Dalai-Lama. Only a corpse would not wish to smell the stones of the Greek Pantheon, to sail from Madagascar to the Amazon River, to befriend a leopard or hold the work of Nietzsche in your hands. Answer me, populace, answer me! Where did you lose your love of life? What is it that sustains you on this empty march? For one day, you will hopelessly regret all of this, just as your whole life is one eternal regret.

In the morning you run home, full of hope for the lottery numbers. By afternoon you are discouraged, close to ending it all. You obsessively seek your ‘essence’ under the debris of society, while it lies stagnant in your unconscious narcolepsy. Your ignorance and servitude before the world does not allow your essence to manifest itself. You die a little each day, convinced that you are a "saviour" of people, an "altruist", a "messiah".

You seek compensation for your faults in gold, fame, eloquence and a ridiculous ‘nobility’. But nobody is more unbearable than you. Yesterday you did not have enough to eat and today you are surrounded by servants and bankers. Yet you did not uncover a basic truth; money cannot save you. On the contrary, money only makes you more pretentious, incoherent and contemptible.

In the homes of the nouveau riche and successful thieves, I see marble pottery, Rembrandts and Beethovens, draperies from Bombay, flowers from the Himalayas, Persian carpets and – most absurd of all – a bust of Goethe. I instinctively bow my head to the diploma you display upon your wall as if it is a holy parchment. I note that many of your books are untouched, or still in their wrappings. I see your crystals and your plants. You play the fool, your fat wallet crammed into your back pocket, your legs crossed, your rear and genitals concealed. Within minutes of my arrival, your servants have prepared a table and begin to serve enough food to feed thirty starving children. You exhibit your collection of fine wines – mostly given to you by businessmen, bankers and politicians in thanks for your complicity in national corruption. You flaunt your Picassos and Rembrandts as if art itself ever actually moved you. Then you pull back the grey velvet that covers an Italian piano and you command your adolescent daughter to perform a piece of Liszt, a command barely distinguishable from those you give your servants. Your delicate daughter touches the keyboard with gestures of discomfort and her tense lips betray the signs of contempt. Liszt permeates your parlours, dancing an ironic dance before disappearing behind the coarse draperies. You speak about "technique" as if it is everything, making it clear that, for you, the symbol is far more interesting than what is symbolised. You take me on a tour of the suites of your mansion as if we are in a Greek amphitheatre, but everything you display is mounted and artificial. You present your ‘wife’ to me and I sense the letter she hides between her breasts, a love letter – and it is not from you! It reads:

"Once again I noticed you move away, barely dancing between the incandescent rays of the sun, showing incurable discomfort and pain. You and I, naïve castaways, were led into an ambush! Our brief moments of passion inevitably ended in disaster. Like lunatics we wallowed in the brief pleasure of our bodies and our madness, believing we were promised the impossible. Our passions chained us to our errant ways, just as the gods chained Prometheus to a rock. Others walk alongside us like puppets, take in our confused dreams of love, then live their own truths and lies, almost identical to ours. I risk another look at you as you walk – a sun inside a sun – but then your hair falls sadly across your face, as if you will forever face the ground. A strange emotion fills my chest. I do not know why we are saddened, nor why our distress is so common! I feel adrift. The routines of life fill me with boredom, so I prowl the streets like a dangerous criminal. I want you but I do not want you. It drives me crazy. I do not know what do with this anxiety and this passion that makes me crave you when you are not here. Only you can temper my impossible agony. As two restless wolves we stalk these labyrinths, seeking from one other something beyond a miracle. Time passes hazily; our fingers caress each other in vain, and too soon it is over and we are standing on crowded platforms, showing the same ‘indifference’ as the bureaucratic puppets and the imbecilic herd that we lay criticising, post-coitus. Oh, if only I could find a way to steal you forever, or to awaken from this beautiful, diabolical dream.

After divorcing your woman, you spend the rest of your life accusing her of frigidity, of schizophrenia, of having only homosexual friends, of prostitution, of being a perverse mother – anything that might restore your damaged self-esteem and security. And you, poor abandoned woman, you resort to taking your resentment out on the children of the man who disposed of you; you inquire into his life, excavate all his affairs and hound him for the money that your parents and the State have denied you. Turning into a parasite will never set you free. The roots of a marriage breakdown are not in the behaviour of the ‘victim’ but are inherent in the primitive custom of living with a stranger and expecting to indoctrinate them into your worldview.

Why carry on pretending that your marriage is a "sacred thing", that you are "completely happy", that it is "everything you expected from life", and so on? I know you intimately from having been your neighbour, and from living with your sons and daughters around the world. I know you from having slept with your wives, from questioning beggars, mafia dons and kings, and from sharing a room with you and hearing your nightmares. Your lies are pointless, for I know all of your expressions and I know the content of your constant torment. I was there during your most contradictory moments and ‘gestalts’. I have mapped a complete chart of all your sufferings. I confess, I was rarely interested in your actual words, but guided myself using your gestures, your cynicism, your fearful expression, your definitions of pleasure, and by the way you lied to the ingenuous mortals that surrounded you. As Elias Canetti said:

"Men speak with each other, but are not understood. One man's words collide against those of another and there is no greater illusion than to believe that language is a form of communication between them. We speak with people but in a way that they do not understand us. The more we speak, the less the other understands. We give a squeak and he returns a shout. The shout ricochets like a bullet, debates with itself, kicks itself and finally falls lifelessly to the ground. Seldom does it penetrate anything in the other person and when it does, it is almost always something distorted and false."

It seems there is no cure: you will always be an itinerant paradox. You swear to be a monist, but your body reveals an explicit and fanatical dualism. You fight to grasp the essence of the Yin-Yang whilst showing that you can never be in inner harmony with it. You hold a certain fascination for astrology, but all it reveals is that the stars governed your birth, and that life made you the populace. I wondered about your star-sign constellation and concluded that it must be a Chinese pumpkin with an ascending, elongated Brazilian cucumber. You have become a case study for psychiatrists by disguising yourself as a mystic; charming and enlightened, inventing a god for every season, a master for every moment, and a lie for every time you address me.

You vile parasite, you have caused the suicides of such great men as José Ingenieros, Lucretius, Cesare Pavese, Stefan Zweig, Raul Pompeii, Pedro Nava, and many others. The origin of your sorrow and resentment against these courageous and lucid men is not easily understood. More elusive still is the understanding of how you, with your fat belly and your myopia, forced them to abandon their lives. And death makes you crueller to others than you could ever be to yourself. Ernest Becker wrote:

"Of all that motivates man one of the main things is the terror of death. After Darwin, death as a problem of evolution became important and many thinkers soon noticed that this was one of the main psychological problems of man (...) To be conscious of death it is necessary to reflect upon and manipulate concepts. But animals do not possess this quality. They live and disappear with equal indifference: a few moments of fear, a few seconds of anguish and it’s over. But to live a whole life with the obsessive idea of death in our dreams, even in our happier days, that is a different thing."

Poor old fellow! I conclude with sadness and exasperation that the thousands of books written over the past centuries are useless. The new concepts of life, the wonders of science, the religions that have chaotically swept across the planet, the mechanical armour-plating of body and art: none of this has achieved a single thing... All seems to have been in vain, to have gained you nothing valuable. Nothing has helped you to escape your trap.

In a street in Jujuy you cast judgement against the liberty of a foreigner; you separated him from his Peruvian companion and his Brazilian friends, you interrogated him with your repressed police voice and upheld your false security with machine guns. With your finger on the trigger you demanded to know his name, the contents of his baggage, the meaning of his beard, his religion, his ideology and his fate. This system has made such an imbecile of you. You interrogated him about everything except his life. Then you escorted him to your torture chambers, photographed him from all angles, archived his fingerprints, his weight and the colour of his eyes... You and your paramilitary groups had nothing against him; the world had nothing against him. I was arriving in Bolivia, listening to the smooth voice of Elena, observing the natives smiling, eating black bread and imbibing the natural and pure wine that peasants produce for your drinking bouts. Before then, I only had a fleeting interest in the crimes and slaughters that you perpetrated throughout the centuries. I knew your origins and how unbalanced you were, and I occasionally fantasised about shooting you or blowing up your bunker. I regarded you and your bodyguards with disgust; as an anthropological curiosity, nothing more.

When black men travel the world you close the doors of your racist hotels, telling them there are no rooms available. If blacks were really the sub-species that you claim they are, they would already have dismantled your cowardly society, taken an iron bar to your Parliament, your factories and churches, and left nothing standing... I honestly do not know what has held them back from taking these measures! Poor white man! You poor bastard! You poor son of a bitch! In London’s airports you made a prison for black people, Latin-Americans, Spanish, Asians and for all your ex-colonists that did not carry a pocket full of dollars. You accused an African woman of dealing cocaine, barely disguising your racist fanaticism. You are so demented you could not see how superior that woman is to you, and to everyone that protects you with night sticks and dogs... All those people you have robbed over the decades (Hindu, Chinese, African, Latin-American, and so on) will wait, for as long as it takes, for the opportunity to kick your skull into the gutter. One day, you will realise that Shakespeare already described your profile in Timon of Athens, as the character Ventidio Cumano, an eternal hypocrite and a fake; apparently friendly, but actually false and treacherous. As you read the words that Timon directs to the prostitutes and lovers of Alcibiades, you will see that the playwright knew you intimately:

"In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins, And mar men's spurring. Crack the lawyer's voice, That he may never more false title plead... And not believes himself: down with the nose, Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away Of him that, his particular to foresee, Smells from the general weal: make curl'd-pate ruffians bald; And let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war Derive some pain from you: plague all; That your activity may defeat and quell The source of all erection. There's more gold: Do you damn others, and let this damn you, And ditches grave you all!"

Further on, Timon shouts the last curse with equal fury:
Thou art a slave, whom Fortune's tender arm
With favour never clasp'd; but bred a dog...
If thou hadst not been born the worst of men,
Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer.


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