There is a gulf separating sentimentality from grief that too many Westerners do not realise the existence of. I sometimes hear the sentimental going on about suffering in the world all caused by America, and how poor the suffering are and lachrymosa ya ya. I chased one across a parking lot, trying to catch him so I could beat him with a metal chair. A cast iron chair, at that. Lucky for me I couldn't get him. He would have learned the meaning of real pain... though he did learn the meaning of real terror. Ha. I missed him. Lucky me. Real suffering? How's this.
“Liberian mercenaries returning from western Ivory Coast tell the Monitor that they recently fought for both sides in Ivory Coast’s civil war, killing civilians, raping women, and destroying villages as they went.” They were surprisingly cheap. For $1,500 per brute you could get as much violence as you could possibly want. And then you could renege on the deal and get even more brutality out of the enraged mercenary, as he retaliated on whoever was available. Kind of like buy one take one, no interest payments, eat all you want.
Quoted from Richard Fernandez, "The Magic Stone," The Belmont Club. 11 April 2011.
When I encounter sentimentalists who love feeling other people's pain for moral fun, I lose my good temper. I hate leftards. I hate the cheap smugness and the posing and the sneering. I'd love to go Liberian on them. But, hey, who's tossing around $1,500.00 bucks to make it even sort of worth the while? Nobody I know. Everybody I know knows the leftard sentimentalist isn't worth a cent. The leftist Death Hippie is the certain cause of most of the trouble in Africa and Asia today, but he's still not worth killing just because.
Richard Fernandez gets it right. I've seen it.
Forget chairs. It makes me want to take an axe to Death Hippies.
A propos to not a thing at all.