Reality is like racial purity. Knowing that one eighth is precisely what they abhor but that, inextricably enmeshed with the other seven eighths, it can be arbitrarily forgiven, must be forgiven if the process is to go on.

I imagine Hitler naked, inkpen in hand, sectioning off parts of himself as he sections off parts of the city: separating the clean and unclean, the locks of ghettoes
from the strands of blond.

This, this, this and this is real: this is not.

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