"My colleagues consider me a calm, collected, thoughtful man. Calm, certainly; but often during the day my head begins to rage, with the dull roar of a crematorium.
I talk, I hold conversations, I make decisions, just like everyone else; but standing at a bar with my glass of Cognac, I imagine a man coming in with a shotgun and opening fire; at the movies or at the theater, I picture a live grenade rolling under the seats; in a town square on a public holiday I see a car packed with explosions blowing up, the afternoon festivities turned into carnage, blood filling the cracks between the cobblestones, gobbets of flesh splattered on the walls or smashing through the windows to land in the Sunday soup, I hear cries, the groans of people with their limbs torn off like the legs of an insect plucked by a curious little boy, the bewilderment of the survivors, a strange, earsplitting silence, the beginning of a long fear.
Calm? Yes, I remain calm, whatever happens, I don’t let anything show, I stay quiet, impassive, like the empty windows of burned-out cities, like the faces of the drowned just beneath the surface of the water, never to be found.
I couldn’t break this terrifying calm even if I wanted to.
I’m not the sort of man who loses his nerve at the drop of a hat, I know how to behave.
But it weighs on me too."
— Jonathan Littell - The Kindly Ones
Why do they kill the wild things?
the infernos, the night circuses, the spirit of rebellion, the tricksters.
a beautiful boy, wild as they come
a northern light made out of stardust
angels and demons and invisible monsters
all fighting over his lovely bones
he walked the wolf wood, he sat the mermaid chair,
carried atlas on his back and shrugged him off again.
a lion among men, a heart, a lonely hunter
til their storm of swords cut him down.
Why do they always silence the voice in the wind?
why do they always kill the boy in the wild?