We must depend on the wholeness of our being, ultimately only on that, which is our Holy Ghost within us.
Whereas, in an ideal of love and benevolence, we have tried to automatize ourselves into little love-engines always stoked with the sorrows or beauties of other people, so that we can get up steam of charity or righteous wrath.

A great trick is to pour on the fire the oil of our indignation at somebody else's wickedness, and then, when we've got up steam like hell, back the engine and run bish! smash! against the belly of the offender.

Because he said he didn't want to love any more, we hate him for evermore, and try to run over him, every bit of him, with our love-tanks.

And all the time we yell at him: "Will you deny love, you villain?
Will you ?" And by the time he faintly squeaks, "I want to be loved! I want to be loved!" we have got so used to running over him with our love-tanks that we don't feel in a hurry to leave off.
"_Sois mon frere, ou je te tue._" "_Sois mon frere, ou je me tue._" There are the two parrot-threats of love, on which our loving centuries have run as on a pair of railway-lines.

Excuse me if I want to get out of the train.