“Woof woof,” said Clint. “Woof woof woof.”

eastSmall story I wrote for HCR -> read here

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These people say that they MUST write, that it’s a NEED of theirs. It is less honest than a prehistoric human’s need to kill a green eagle and put its feathers in their hair to save the corn.

Writing should only be used to stop yourself from writing.

Get the junk out – pop the cyst – not for society or that godawful concept ‘community’ – but throw something out that you did not ingest or breathe or learn from the world but was there at conception – that thing enraged for being umbilically severed from the mother and always, constantly partaking of science and knowledge to reconnect with thee MAMAJAMA instead of the SELF.

Let it play outside the rotten animal.

Sorry professors. The SELF is far from you – is free – is mean like this:

clint unfrgv

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It’s about POWER, Ray.

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NO – Kurt taking it to their asses pronto

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“Man is a mistake, he must go.”

From DH Lawrence’s Women in Love (1920)

[Birkin and Ursula having it out over people]

“But I abhor humanity, I wish it was swept away. It could go, and there would be no ABSOLUTE loss, if every human being perished tomorrow. The reality would be untouched. Nay, it would be better. The real tree of life would then be rid of the most ghastly, heavy crop of Dead Sea Fruit, the intolerable burden of myriad simulacra of people, an infinite weight of mortal lies.’

‘So you’d like everybody in the world destroyed?’ said Ursula.

‘I should indeed.’

‘And the world empty of people?’

‘Yes truly. You yourself, don’t you find it a beautiful clean thought, a world empty of people, just uninterrupted grass, and a hare sitting up?’

The pleasant sincerity of his voice made Ursula pause to consider her own proposition. And really it WAS attractive: a clean, lovely, humanless world. It was the REALLY desirable. Her heart hesitated, and exulted. But still, she was dissatisfied with HIM.

‘But,’ she objected, ‘you’d be dead yourself, so what good would it do you?’

‘I would die like a shot, to know that the earth would really be cleaned of all the people. It is the most beautiful and freeing thought. Then there would NEVER be another foul humanity created, for a universal defilement.’

‘No,’ said Ursula, ‘there would be nothing.’

‘What! Nothing? Just because humanity was wiped out? You flatter yourself. There’d be everything.’

‘But how, if there were no people?’

‘Do you think that creation depends on MAN! It merely doesn’t. There are the trees and the grass and birds. I much prefer to think of the lark rising up in the morning upon a human-less world. Man is a mistake, he must go. There is the grass, and hares and adders, and the unseen hosts, actual angels that go about freely when a dirty humanity doesn’t interrupt them—and good pure-tissued demons: very nice.’

It pleased Ursula, what he said, pleased her very much, as a phantasy. Of course it was only a pleasant fancy. She herself knew too well the actuality of humanity, its hideous actuality. She knew it could not disappear so cleanly and conveniently. It had a long way to go yet, a long and hideous way. Her subtle, feminine, demoniacal soul knew it well.

‘If only man was swept off the face of the earth, creation would go on so marvellously, with a new start, non-human. Man is one of the mistakes of creation—like the ichthyosauri. If only he were gone again, think what lovely things would come out of the liberated days;—things straight out of the fire.’

‘But man will never be gone,’ she said, with insidious, diabolical knowledge of the horrors of persistence. ‘The world will go with him.’

‘Ah no,’ he answered, ‘not so. I believe in the proud angels and the demons that are our fore-runners. They will destroy us, because we are not proud enough. The ichthyosauri were not proud: they crawled and floundered as we do. And besides, look at elder-flowers and bluebells—they are a sign that pure creation takes place—even the butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage—it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings. It is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.’

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“they are less”

From DH Lawrence’s “The Captain’s Doll” (1933)

[Alexander and Hannele on the Alps]

‘You came to see the glacier and the mountains with me,’ he replied.

‘Did I? Then I made a mistake. You can do nothing but find fault even with God’s mountains.’

A dark flame suddenly went over his face.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I hate them, I hate them. I hate their snow and their affectations.’

‘Affectation!’ she laughed. ‘Oh! Even the mountains are affected for you, are they?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Their loftiness and their uplift. I hate their uplift. I hate people prancing on mountain-tops and feeling exalted. I’d like to make them all stop up there, on their mountain-tops, and chew ice to fill their stomachs. I wouldn’t let them down again, I wouldn’t. I hate it all, I tell you; I hate it.’

She looked in wonder on his dark, glowing, ineffectual face. It seemed to her like a dark flame burning in the daylight and in the ice-rains: very ineffectual and unnecessary.

‘You must be a little mad,’ she said superbly, ‘to talk like that about the mountains. They are so much bigger than you.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No! They are not.’

‘What!’ she laughed aloud. ‘The mountains are not bigger than you? But you are extraordinary.’

‘They are not bigger than me,’ he cried. ‘Any more than you are bigger than me if you stand on a ladder. They are not bigger than me. They are less than me.’

‘Oh! Oh!’ she cried in wonder and ridicule.’ The mountains are less than you.’

‘Yes,’ he cried, ‘they are less.’

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Harris vs Bear

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There is a constant unlearning

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