ARX-Han

“She’s talking again—this time about the type of paint she prefers to use on a canvas, comparing the differences between the various types of materials she likes to employ in her abstract expressionism—but the nominal exchange of semantic content hardly seems to matter here. What matters is the vibe, and right now you cannot help but believe that this girl actually likes you and it’s a real struggle to process the ground-level truth of this transparently irrefutable observation. That her straightforward sincerity is rapidly disassembling every plate of your three-dimensional alpha-male projection feels like a fact of surprisingly little relevance. It’s like she’s gradually removing the external carapace that armors the limbs and torso of your body, calmly setting the pieces down into a small pile at her feet while she scans the naked flesh of the real you, seemingly unperturbed by the appearance of the underlying. Now she’s switching genres and saying something about Pollock and you catch yourself repeating the sentence of annihilation—damn, I really like this girl—a sentence, that, once detected by the psychic powers of the invisible streams of causation that regulate the continuity of the universe, essentially guarantees that you will not be banging her and that she will not assume the status of you girlfriend. Indeed it makes you a little bit sad to contemplate the inherent asymmetry of your reciprocal experiences in this regard. For you tonight is one of the most important events of your life, but for her it’s merely a typical evening during an otherwise unremarkable week of her youthful prime. This is all to say that you are, in short, completely and utterly fucked by this point. Nonetheless, you’ve come to the conclusion that the idea of maintaining internal control effectively no longer matters at all. That she is inevitably going to destroy you is more or less already a total given, but the certainty of your eventual immolation can hardly be called a tragedy. Relative to the desolate wasteland that is the past twenty-two years of your life, you’d crawl over a continent of broken glass to fuck this girl and hold her in your arms even one single time—a singular act that would retroactively validate the whole of your existence from start to finish.”
― ARX-Han, INCEL: A Novel

“One half of me clarifies that my intent is not genocidal (it’s not like I want to kill these people, I’m not a fucking brute); nay, I am a modern, the rightful inheritor of a genuine categorical imperative; yes, a veritable gentleman standing tall and purposeful among a gaggling horde of poorly civilized peoples. My humble, singular ask is merely that I don’t want so many of them here (perhaps a token amount, at most—ideally, just the women). There is nothing malign that is proscriptive in this worldview, no piles of charred limbs and corpses, and certainly no crimes against humanity—just the sane, orderly, and humane export of these foreigners back to their native lands, like repatriating invasive geese back to the Canadian wilderness.”
― ARX-Han, INCEL: A Novel