When an Englishman sees somebody happy, when an Englishman sees me, when an Englishman of any nationality sees Howard Roark in an unguarded moment; he sees something which offends his sense of 'fairness'.
This fairness came to me while watching a sports channel advert; the soccer player had scored, and was gazing about filled with joy, looking for the stamp of public approval on his feeling - having kicked a leather skin into a rope net.
Anyway, the English see this as a valid and approvable joy that they can 'award' by leaving it in peace, as long as the person concerned doesn't get above themselves.
But when they see me, they see someone who feels that way naturally at all times, apparently having done nothing special to 'deserve' it.
These creeps really do think that they are the arbiters of 'unearned' joy(there is no such thing) and so try to destroy it by any means, up to and including attempted murder.
They just know that they have a feeling, that they can't stand me being happy and that it must end.
Thus the coughing and sneezing, the little old men in their twenties, and the boys of seventy.
They hate. They hate and that is all. They try not to realise that they hate joy, and are therefore devoted to death.
And this dressed as a brand of 'fairness', to protect their feeble pretence at 'goodness', stinking evil practised as a virtue.
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2 comments:
It sounds like you live in a version of a torture cell, only it is a country bent on destroying achievement of any kind. We are doing much the same in America, I am sorry to report.
Patrick, we are better off than that; we can hide, in ourselves like Roark, or by avoiding social contact(the car is the enduring symbol of modern-day Britain).
The problems really arise when the evil-savants become our close neighbours and unleash their miserable weapons against our minds.
Unfortunately they don't seem capable of understanding stones and glasshouses; however, as rubbish with no joy to lose, they don't exist except as nothings on one side of a 'conflict'.
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