Hatred is the most alone feeling; it tears itself away from everything including those who indulge it. Red hot hatred that stirs at any provocation can do nothing but sear the bearer of its rage; it has taken from those who possess it any sense of decency, because with it comes a sense of meaninglessness. This, of course, is a paradox, because hatred flaunts itself as some overwhelming cause when in reality it is as empty and dangerous as a broken glass–unable to hold any other emotion and ready to cut any who dare touch.
Hatred is very much like being buried alive. So alone, so all alone, and so captive to fear. No one to hear you scream, but you must. You must cry to the ears that won’t hear, and you must calm the heart by your tears. But hatred is so much more dangerous than even this, because a man buried alive can only be alone and afraid; but a man with hate can harm. In his lonely fear he can fling words and actions that can pierce the soul of another–pierce them so that they too become infected with the infection that rots from withing–hatred.