“I have written a wicked book, and feel clean and spotless as the lamb.” Thus wrote Herman Melville to a friend after completing his infamous whaling diary-cum-atheistic jeremiad. Well, this is a wicked post. I take no joy in its writing (finding it rather more of a release, if anything), but neither do I feel the slightest remorse or shame.
I don’t know what’s more gut-wrenching: watching women deny that they play cruel games… or seeing them acknowledge that, yes, we really are this cold-hearted and calculating. The latter is certainly more shocking.
Roissy is fond of saying that he’s not a “misogynist”; no, learning the unvarnished truth about female psychology has given him a *higher* appreciation for women. Not so for me. Sociosexual philosophy has disillusioned me beyond all reckoning. Peering deep into the psyche of woman has rendered me grievously scornful in feeling and mercilessly unscrupulous in behaviour towards these unholy, ungodly beings. I venture to say that… I hate them. Yes, I hate them! And how could I not?
Oh, the vile criteria by which women judge menfolk! O, abominable, loathsome beings! A creature so damnably constituted as to admire a man for his “social dominance” – by which is meant his ability to waltz through an absurd series of meaningless, contrived riddles – rather than his work ethic, his self-sacrifice, his affability, his charity, his honesty, his justice – in short, his righteousness and integrity; such a creature deserves to be used and abused like a cheap street harlot – or better yet, a vermin-ridden ass – and discarded appropriately. Nothing more; she merits nothing better.
Words like “honour”, “duty”, “kindness”… those things that define goodness and rightness… all meaningless, meaningless to this wretched, wicked half of the human race. And do women who profess belief in something “higher”; women who should know better, afford any solace? No. Instead they show themselves as fraudulent, fickle hellcats who think good men are “weak”. So alas, I can no longer view the distaff horde with anything besides revulsion and contempt. They perjure themselves by their own words; they are beasts, deserving nothing but callous treatment and damnation; and I can wish nothing upon them but furious hatred, ignominy and a miserable passing.
O, woman: to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.
I take no joy in penning the above – but I feel clean and spotless as the lamb. What else is to be said for a lot that believes black to be white, up to be down, and good men to be worthless? Poor Ashley Wilkes, and all good men.