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Hate indistinct is sweet, and suffices for a time; but one must end by
having an object. An animosity diffused over creation is exhausting,
like every solitary pleasure. Hate without an object is like a
shooting-match without a target. What lends interest to the game is a
heart to be pierced. One cannot hate solely for honour; some seasoning
is necessary--a man, a woman, somebody, to destroy. This service of
making the game interesting; of offering an end; of throwing passion
into hate by fixing it on an object; of of amusing the hunter by the
sight of his living prey; giving the watcher the hope of the smoking and
boiling blood about to flow; of amusing the bird-catcher by the
credulity of the uselessly-winged lark; of being a victim, unknowingly
reared for murder by a master-mind--all this exquisite and horrible
service, of which the person rendering it is unconscious, Josiana
rendered Barkilphedro.
Thought is a projectile. Barkilphedro had, from the first day, begun to
aim at Josiana the evil intentions which were in his mind. An intention
and a carbine are alike. Barkilphedro aimed at Josiana, directing
against the duchess all his secret malice. That astonishes you! What has
the bird done at which you fire? You want to eat it, you say. And so it
was with Barkilphedro.
Josiana could not be struck in the heart--the spot where the enigma lies
is hard to wound; but she could be struck in the head--that is, in her
pride. It was there that she thought herself strong, and that she was
weak.
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