The Book of Sins

Начало книги

This is a dark world. I can see that, even if you can’t. When I tell you about it, you say, What you see isn’t real. You’re sick. Yes, I am a sick man. I am damned because I see a world you can’t, or won’t, see. Because I see the skull beneath the skin.

But you’re no better off. You’re like a frog that has been caught and thrown into the pot. The water warms up, you’re a bit uncomfortable, but you can take it, and you’re too lazy to move anyway. Then the water starts to boil, and now you want to jump out, but it’s too late. You should have felt the pain much earlier. Then you could have jumped out of the pot and saved your skin.

Is being alive really such a big deal? I’m not sure. What’s the point of living like a contented pig, without a scrap of dignity? In one sense, someone who dares not to live is more deserving of our respect. So I’ll risk pissing you off, to show you life as it really is. Take a good look. I know you really want to, even though you find it offensive. I know you have a longing to be outraged, to suffer. We’re all secret masochists. Take toothache: we know that if we touch a rotten tooth it will hurt more, but we still can’t help probing it with our tongue, just to make sure. We need to be sure, even if it makes the pain worse. In fact, when the pain reaches a peak, it seems to lessen.

Читать дальше →