My keyboard, yesterday
Hate speech is the new racism. The Left, like every dedicated follower of fashion, tires of the latest outfits and looks ever to the coming season for something new and exciting to wear. Perhaps they became weary of racism because it didn’t allow the fascists and Nazis to be held accountable enough. Racists don’t necessarily hate all women, for example, just black women. Not good enough. Racists may be indifferent about homosexuals, and even point out that Islam has something of a problem with them. That won’t do. Racists may think transgender people are actually quite brave and admirable. No, no, no. Gotta catch ‘em all.
Hatred is a perfectly understandable human emotion. I have no background in anthropology or evolutionary theory, but I imagine it is some sort of vestigial animal defence mechanism designed, or evolved, to rile a creature the better to defend its young or its own kind. Now, of course, it is not triggered to defend the hater from attack, but it lingers on, like the coccyx or appendix. I have hated people. I hate people still. I have hated far more people than I have ever loved. But that’s me.
Social media, itself rapidly evolving into anti-social media, has provided many things, not least the ideal platform for hatred. It has the added advantage of offering the one who hates a medium through which they can express their hate without fear of physical reprisal. That is gradually being rectified by the authorities, the provisional wing of the political class. People are beginning to go to prison now for online ‘hate crime’, across Europe, at least the Western part of Europe. But what is hatred, and are these political prisoners really guilty of it, if it is to be a crime in this brave new world?
We all know, really, we haters. What is hate? I’m not going to bother with the dictionary. That’s like trying to mend your Ferrari using the manual for an Amish horse buggy. Does the hater wish the target of their hatred dead? No, at least never in my experience. I want them just the way they are. They help me to focus on what I believe. Of course, there are certain parts of my own make-up and behavior patterns that I hate. But they serve the same purpose. You define yourself by what you wish not to be, by what you hate.
And I know what I wish not to be. I wish not to be a person who will say and do things to gain the approval of others. This used not to be the case. I was, for a long time, desperate to gain what I believe psychologists call ‘reinforcement’, that is, the approval of others. Having attempted a sort of am-dram version of Freud’s Attempt at a Self-Analysis, it’s my belief that I feel myself responsible for the break-up of my parents’ marriage. This is not uncommon for the eldest boy in a broken family.
So it is that I come to hate. I have come to hate Liberals, Progressives, the post-modernist know-nothings, the relativist, multicultural, oikophobic, self-mutilating, bleeding-heart, mea culpist intellectual pygmies who now run the West. I hate the Gramsciite Orcs, the students with a hard-on for blacks, the local councils who favour Muslims because they themselves despise their indigenous citizens. I hate the political class, as close to software as you can get and still have a pulse that is not actually digital. I hate the media, the journalists who think that what they do is difficult and challenging when it is just pleasing Mummy while hating Daddy.
I hate the lack of authenticity displayed in the modern world, the hiding behind orthodoxy, the mask of goodness. Nietzsche; larvatus prodeo. I advance wearing my mask. Because it’s all a masquerade ball whose guests are intellectual spastics, mental cripples who would rather be up to date on the latest hip TV show than read anything that genuinely challenged their preconceptions. I hate the biens pensants, the Gütmenschen, the new Puritans. I hate them not, or not simply, because they are not me, but I love that I am not them. A paradox? Not at all.
I hate the certainty of these tribes of the good. I hate their odour of sanctity, the way they look at one another in mutual admiration like cultists. I have spent a lot of time with Left-wingers, supremely confident as they are, and I have spent a lot of time with Scientologists – although I never was one. This was work – and to be scrupulously honest, I preferred the company of the Scinos.
I hate the organisation that allows these cockroaches to thrive, the way that society is being subtly arranged so that dissent becomes more and more dangerous, the way that the police take the candy bar because they are too scared not to, the way that schools become dark, Satanic mills churning out creepy Midwich Cuckoos who chirrup multicultural platitudes on command, the way television dominates with its dull, vapid, grinding litany of nothing at all. I hate the death of freedom and I hate the birth of a new and dreadful servitude. More than anything, I hate the fact that the new masters want to live in a world like that, a world where the puzzle pieces grow fewer, the puzzle simpler, the picture less a representation of anything real than just a blank, drab colour field in the worst shade of the worst colour that ever was.
I hate that you must be quiet now, unless the things you have to say have been approved by the commissar. I hate the fact that bored and boring people have been convinced they are interested and are interesting. I hate the cult of the body to the detriment of the mind. I hate the fact that the West of the 21st century could have been a new Elysium, a thousand Renaissances exploding like glorious fireworks, a place of wonder and of joy, a heaven in hell’s despair.
And I hate the people who put us there. The technocrats, the master engineers, the helmsmen, the puppeteers, the dance masters who don’t know how to dance. Hate speech? Amateur night at the Apollo. With me it’s a full-time job.
But you have to be alive to hate and, to reprise the most chilling line in Orwell’s 1984, we are the dead.