I try to imagine someone who understands, at a gut level, that there are people, innocent
people, innocent in the worst way, that sleepy innocence of going to
work, down into the station with your child’s hand in yours, or leaving
the end of a shift, or standing up from your desk and stretching,
thinking of a cup of coffee, the bathroom, until you look out the
window. I wonder if it’s possible to understand this, to be
these people, and then commit this kind of crime. Should I pity the
person who does this? (James Wright: "I do not pity the dead, I pity
the dying.")

"on london," Nyarlathotep’s Miscellany, 7/8/05


I’ve never been to London, though I do feel a certain kinship to it even so. I was trying to find the words to write something about the bombings on Thursday, and I couldn’t, so I’m sending you to Nyarly’s post instead, because she says it better than I can.

One Response to “London”

  1. Bane says:

    What really gets me is knowing there are people out there who can come up with these plots, work to make them a reality, and find other people to talk freely with about such actions–and never be fazed by the thought, “Hey, these are people I’m about to hurt.” I don’t want to run to violence as our solution to these messed-up folks, but at the same time I find their existence exceedingly disturbing.