Vengeance, naked vengeance, is the greatest engine of man's progress. It is only when a man has been willfully slighted, totally debased and stripped of his illusions of 'goodwill between men', that he can begin to create the extraordinary. From the young writer called a poet-aster who rises to great heights in his maturity to the beaten servant boy that comes to be the master of a vast merchant empire, nothing stokes a man's fire hotter than to see others proven wrong and to acquire the power to lay them low.
Further, vengeance is the only universal urge. Every nation's myths share it, and there is nothing else that can turn a meek clerk into a magnate and a wan governess into a poisoner with equal swiftness. Only certain souls can kill for their nation or their god, more can kill for their family, more still if driven by circumstance, but every living person can kill, kill without remorse, kill again and again in the name of vengeance. It is the spirit that primes every duelist's pistol and draws the lines on every revanchist's map. It is the soul of nationalism, Marxism, and anarchism alike.
We stand on the precipice of a time in which every motivation that can be called 'good' will fall away. All those couched in love. Love of one's country, one's god, one's family, even oneself will die off. Avarice may replace them for a time but it will breed vengeance and vengeance, vengeance alone, will endure forever as new and ancient slights render every man and every people nothing more than agents of vengeance and death shall reign.
-V. Ivanonovich Sokolov, Tsarist Russian officer, philosopher of warfare, and occasional poet writing in 1917, mere days before he was killed defending his family home from Bolsheviks.
It won't end, it will never end. Until the end of time, until the bustle of civlisation fades away, until the very last man on this fire-scorched Earth lifts his fists to the sky, cursing God under his dying breath, this chaos will ever end. With our right hand we will write, paint, caress our loved ones under the pretense of kindness, and on the left we will whip the people around us in blind fits of madness.
We will yell profanities at our neighbours, and throw rocks at their houses--we will tear their fences apart, destroy their crops and slaughter their animals, cursing them to the deepest depths of hell, all while unwittingly possessed by demons. And as we curse them, our own crops will die, our animals will starve, our children will wither away, and the boards of our own houses will fall apart of their own accord. But we will turn a blind eye to our properties, and we will point to our other neighbours who too neglect their own estates, and we will yell, "look at people such as these, who let their houses fall apart, and leave their own children to die; what good are people such as these? Let us protest, rally against them, and set them aflame, for they are not of God's children, but the sons and daughters of the Devil himself!" We will blind ourselves in this way, and by our very own hands we will strangle goodness itself, and in its absence we will shed more and more blood, all still under the pretense of justice. Justice, justice we will act upon: pure, wretched justice!