One who hates is a man holding a magnifying-glass, and when he hates someone, he knows precisely that person's surface, from the soles of his feet all the way up to each hair on the hated head
Interpretation
Hate distorts perception, allowing a person to focus only on the flaws of those they despise.
This quote emphasizes how hatred alters our perception, enabling individuals to scrutinize others intensely, often to the point of obsession. The metaphor of a magnifying glass illustrates that when one harbors hate, they become fixated on the surface-level traits of their target, missing out on the deeper humanity that exists beyond those perceived flaws.
In practice
In a discussion about the dangers of hatred, this quote can illustrate how it can cloud our judgments.
The maker of kitsch does not create inferior art, he is not an incompetent or a bungler, he cannot be evaluated by aesthetic standards; rather, he is ethically depraved, a criminal willing radical evil. And since it is radical evil that is manifest here, evil per se, forming the absolute negative pole of every value-system, kitsch will always be evil, not just kitsch in art, but kitsch in every value-system that is not an imitation system.
No one's death comes to pass without making some impression, and those close to the deceased inherit part of the liberated soul and become richer in their humanness.
Were one merely to seek information, one should inquire of the man who hates, but if one wishes to know what truly is, one better ask the one who loves
I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
Many have become chess masters - no one has become the master of chess.
We came whirling out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust... _x000D_ The stars made a circle, and in the middle, we dance.
Death is the surcease that comes when the exhausting battle has been lost.
Utopia was here at last: its novelty had not yet been assailed by the supreme enemy of a ll Utopias - boredom.
I long for the days of disorder. I want them back, the days when I was alive on the earth, rippling in the quick of my skin, heedless and real. I was dumb-muscled and angry and real. This is what I long for, the breach of peace, the days of disarray when I walked real streets and did things slap-bang and felt angry and ready all the time, a danger to others and a distant mystery to myself.
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