the disorder of evil is in fact the thing itself

from Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing (1994)

Yet there was still a further order to the narrative and it was a thing of which men do not speak. He said the wicked know that if the ill they do be of sufficient horror men will not speak against it. That men have just enough stomach for small evils and only these will they oppose. He said that true evil has power to sober the smalldoer against his own deeds and in the contemplation of that evil he may even find the path of righteousness which has been foreign to his feet and may have no power but to go upon it. Even this man may be appalled at what is revealed to him and seek some order to stand against it. Yet in all of this there are two things which perhaps he will not know. He will not know that while the order which the righteous seek is never righteousness itself but is only order, the disorder of evil is in fact the thing itself. Nor will he know that while the righteous are hampered at every turn by their ignorance of evil to the evil all is plain, light and dark alike. This man of which we speak will seek to impose order and lineage upon things which rightly have none. He will call upon the world itself to testify as to the truth of what are in fact but his desires. In his final incarnation he may seek to indemnify his words with blood for by now he will have discovered that words pale and lose their savor while pain is always new.

honeyed sabers

from Isaac Babel, "The Road To Brody" (1923) in The Collected Stories trans. Peter Constantine (2002)

I mourn for the bees. They have been destroyed by warring armies. There are no longer any bees in Volhynia.

We desecrated the hives. We fumigated them with sulfur and detonated them with gunpowder. Smoldering rags have spread a foul stench over the holy republics of the bees. Dying, they flew slowly, their buzzing barely audible. Deprived of bread, we procured honey with our sabers. There are no longer any bees in Volhynia.

The chronicle of our everyday crimes oppresses me as relentlessly as a bad heart. Yesterday was the first day of the battle of Brody. Lost on the blue earth, we suspected nothing - neither I, nor my friend Afonka Bida. The horses had been fed grain in the morning. The rye stood tall, the sun was beautiful, and our souls, which did not deserve these shining, soaring skies, thirsted for lingering pain.

the ferret of satan

from The Apprehension and Confession of Three Notorious Witches (1589)

. . . the devill appeered unto her in the Almes house aforesaide: about ten of the Clock in the night time, beeing in the shape and proportion of a dunnish culloured Ferrit, having fiery eyes, and the saide Examinate beeing alone in her Chamber, and sitting upon a low stoole, preparing her selfe to bedward: the Ferrit standing with his hinder legs upon the ground, and his fore legs setled upon her lappe, and setling his fiery eyes upon her eyes, spake and pronounced unto her these woords following, namelye: "Joan Prentice give me thy soule," to whome this Examinate being greatly amazed, answered and said: "In the name of god what art thou?" The Ferrit answered, "I am Satan, feare me not. My comming vnto thee is to doo thee no hurt but to obtaine thy soule, which I must and wil have before I departe from thee." To whome the saide examinate answered and said, that he demaunded that of her which is none of hers to give, saying: that her soule appertained onely unto Jesus Christ, by whose precious blood shedding, it was bought and purchased. To whome the saide Ferret replyed and saide, "I must then have some of thy blood," which she willingly graunting, offered him the forefinger of her left hand, the which the Ferrit tooke into his mouth, and setting his former feete upon that hand, suckt blood therout, in so much that her finger did smart exceedingye: and the saide examinate demaunding againe of the Ferrit what his name was: "It answered Bidd. and then presently the said Ferrit vanished out of her sight sodainly."

. . . Item, she saith and affirmeth, that at what time soever she would have her Ferret doo any thing for her, she used these woordes, "Bidd, Bidd, Bidd, come Bidd, come bidd, come bidd, come suck, come suck, come suck," and that presently he would appeere as is aforesaide: and suckt blood out of her left cheeke, and then perfourmed any mischeefe she willed or wished him to doo for her unto or against any of her neighbours.

the heathen land of texas

from John Graves, Goodbye to a River (1959)

[Describes local atrocities near the Brazos of waged by settlers versus non-Comanche natives]. It is unlikely that his little ugliness lighted the fuse to the main powder keg, because the main powder keg was labeled "Comanche," and he hadn't ventured to touch them. But he set a pattern for other settlers like him, and it seems that more were like him than were like, say, Robert Neighbors. Many more . . . And The People themselves were getting restive, resentful of the white encroachment on so much good land and grass and water, and covetous of the big, fast, American riding stock. That was the year they massacred the Cambren and Mason families in Jack County just to the north, the first real bloodiness of its kind in the area. Companies of white Rangers, official and otherwise, were organized and began vengefully to track war parties and stolen stock across the wild prairies.

Things were shaping up. Old Sam Houston the Raven, ally of all Indians by tepee marriage and temperament, hurled objections from the southern seat of government but got nowhere. "I agreed," Austrian George Erath wrote in his memiors--he knew the Brazos country--"I agreed, but I said that no man would dare tell them so unless he wanted to be hanged, and that if he, Houston, went up there preaching peace, they would hang him."

Houston was the one who sadly, somewhere along the line, said there was no solution. He said that if he could build a wall across Texas which would keep all the Indians securely to the west, the God-damned Texans would crawl over it from their side. . . . He was right. The Brazos whites finally organized a full-scale attack on the Lower Reserve, the peaceful Indians. Because of the firmness of the army commander there, and the unexpected backbone of the Indians themselves, it came to nothing; but in 1859, Robert Neighbors had to lead an official removal of all Indians from Texas, farmers and fighters alike, up across the Red and into the Territory. After he had them there, he sent Washington a bitter message:

I have this day crossed all Indians out of the heathen land of Texas and am now out of the land of the Philistines. If you want to have a full description of our exodus, see the Bible where the children of Israel crossed the Red Sea. We have had the same show, only our enemies did not follow us to Red River.

When he returned south, one of the truly decent men of his time and place, he was immediately shotgunned down by a drunken Indian-baiting Irishman, whom he had never before seen, in the street at Fort Belknap up the Brazos. It had something to do with his having spoken out against the murder of some Reserve Indians, or, some say, with his having accused the Irishman's brother-in-law of stealing horses and letting the Indians take the blame. There was a lot of that, then and later. . . .