I hate society. In such, I in no way hate the people for which it is composed. I love the people. In color, shape, composition, expression, taste, they come as they are in many forms and causes. They are in every way as material as the capitalism that feeds them, as formal as the laws that bind them, as efficient as the hammering of an old steel press, and as final in nature as their very own god. It is the structural arrangement of such people which I hate. It is this structure that so much like a dysfunctional typewriter never punches out what they put in. There spirit is lost in translation. Lost somewhere in one of Searle’s Chinese rooms.
The Beat’s had it wrong. Society doesn’t suck. Kerouac saw that much himself. In his wild ramblings of ‘On the Road’ he gave us a narrative that was devoid of society’s underlying structure. Bums, drinkers, crazed intellectuals, street walkers, and all the rest composed a narrative of people on the fringe. Not just on the fringe but beyond the scope of its reflection. Outside the reach of it twisted scope. These people have greatness not unlike the greatness of all people. They are at the bottom of things just as they will be and nothing more.
I love people. I suppose that is the point. People though do not always like me. I presume that’s because I’ve had so little respect for normality. I’ve burned at both ends. I have missed no opportunity to live. In doing so I have done terrible things, I have done great things, and everything else in between. I have never apologized. All I have done is simply to state the truth. I love people.