William Hazlitt (1) (1778–1830)

William Hazlitt--a kindred soul. Maybe I can meet him in the afterlife.
On the pleasure of hating:
The Fight: p.1-- Do English People ever eat vegetables? I wonder how long they take in the ladies' room? A loathsome subject, so I don't enjoy the story.
On the Spirit of Monarchy: p.47-- Making fun of royalty. "... whatever suffers oppression, They think deserves it.They are ever ready to side with the strong, to insult and trample on the weak." All power is but an unabated nuisance, a barbarous assumption, an aggravated Injustice, that is not directed to the common good: all Grandeur that has not something corresponding to it in personal Merit and heroic acts, is a deliberate burlesque, and an insult on common sense and human nature."
On Reason and Imagination: p. 84--"a spectacle of deliberate cruelty, that shocks everyone that sees and hears of it, is not to be justified by any calculations of cold-blooded self-interest-- is not to be permitted in any case... necessity has been therefore justly called "The tyrant's plea." (Slaughterhouse footage--veganism) There are two classes whom I have found given to this kind of reasoning, against the use of our senses and feelings and what concerns human nature, viz. knaves and fools. The last do it because they think their own shallow Dogma settle all questions best without any farther appeal and the first do it because they know that the refinements of the head are more easily got rid of than the suggestions of the heart and that a strong sense of Injustice, excited by a particular case in all its aggravations, tells more against them than all the distinctions of the jurist.... Thou Hast no speculation in those eyes that thou Dost glare with: thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold.
On the Pleasure of Hating: p.104--how long did the Pope, the Bourbons and the Inquisition keep the people of England in breath and Supply them with nicknames to vent their spleen upon? (Trumpudo) .... The pleasure of hating, like a poisonous mineral, eats Into the Heart of religion, and turns it to rankling spleen and bigotry; it makes patriotism an excuse for carrying fire, pestilence, and famine into other lands: it leaves to Virtue nothing but the spirit of censoriousness, and the narrow, jealous, inquisitorial watchfulness over the actions and motives of others..... The only way to be reconciled to Old Friends is to part with them for good: at a distance we may chance to be thrown back(in a waking dream)upon old times and old feelings: or at any rate, we should not think of renewing our intimacy, till we have fairly spit our spite, or said, thought, and felt all the ill we can of each other.(Mary Munro)... I care little what anyone says of me, particularly behind my back, and in the way of critical and analytical discussion - it is looks of dislike and Scorn, that I answered with the worst Venom of my pen. the expression of the face wounds me more than the expression of the tongue.(the Vietnamese women on the next street who follow me to see if my doggies go potty in their yards, despite the fact that I hold up my poo-poo bag for them to see. The next time I'm going to give them a piece of my mind, in Spanish--so there!)... I have seen all that had been done by the mighty yearnings of the spirit and intellect of men, of whom the world was not worthy, and that promised a proud opening to truth and good through the Vista of future years, undone by one man, with just glimmering of understanding enough to feel that he was a king, but not to comprehend how he could be king of a free people! (Obama>Trumpudo)... It has become an understood thing that no one can live by his talents or knowledge who is not ready to prostitute those talents and that knowledge to betray his species, and prey upon his fellow - man.
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The pleasure of hating, like a poisonous mineral, eats into the heart of religion, and turns it to rankling spleen and bigotry; it makes patriotism an excuse for carrying fire, pestilence, and famine into other lands; it leaves to virtue nothing but the spirit of censoriousness, and a narrow, jealous, inquisitorial watchfulness over the actions and motives of others.

An alluring title, to be sure, but as with many of his contemporary essayists, Hazlitt rambles more often than he explains or enlightens. In each essay (The Fight, The Indian Jugglers, On the Spirit of Monarchy, What is The People, On Reason and Imagination, On the Pleasure of Hating - only two of which could be considered rewarding), there is perhaps a page of distilled Idea, a kernel such as the above which grew into an unnavigable thicket of prose once pen was laid to paper.

It is of a fashion to bemoan the spiteful and belligerent times we live in, and in this spirit I offer the following morsel:

Does the love of virtue denote any wish to discover or amend our own faults? No, but it atones for an obstinate adherence to our own vices by the most virulent intolerance to human frailties.

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At one moment Mr Hazlitt criticises those who beat about the bush. That's certainly not his fault. He tells you at once what his opinion, covered by the beginning essay, is. And then he tells you, in different words, again. And again. And again ... Strangely, I often thought I might quite enjoy arguing with the author over a cup of tea or a pint of beer. But being bereft of the possibility of butting in with "Point taken, but don't you think that ..." made it rather a dull reading. In fact I would skip, as I progressed, larger and larger portions of the text; at the end I skipped certain essays altogether.… (meer)