On The Trail Of Charles Sobhraj---The Pureness Of Evil And Friedrich Nietzsche Chapter Three
Without Prejudice
I go straight to the doctors this morning as things have not improved one iota. I am worse if anything. The young female Doctor greets my hobbling morose frame with a
" I bet you have sore ears, shoulders, nasty cough and are hacking up copious phlegm "
I look at her in surprise.
" Why" I whisper, " I mean how do you know that ? "
She shrugs and laughs a delightful plump Indian elf and I cough a laugh too. She is the Doctor after all and no doubt has seen many like me in the last few weeks.
She checks my ears, lungs, throat and it turns out I have a major infection of the upper respiratory tract. My lungs are not clear after all. Curses on that idiot Doctor that came so late on Saturday night.
My ears, nasal passages, sinuses, throat and lungs are aflame with bacteria.
I knew it.
I struggle home in the hail. I had to go out this morning even though it's just five degrees and hail lies in the street like snow. It's sleeting now, and I shiver as I get in the car. I should have stayed home but the thought of an interminable wait of another home visit Doctor was an anathema to me.
My cough is a long drawn out wet bronchial one and I have to stop and spit up the phlegm or I know I will vomit it up.
I think of those kids that died at the hand of Charles Sobhraj and I want to cry but I know I can't. I think of the Father of Ved, the young Turkish boy dressed in exotic clothes. A young peacock, a hippy, a small time dealer who dealt and organised willing couriers to carry heroin for him. Disdaining to touch the stuff himself. A shy boy.
I think of his Father staring out at the river and sky where his sons body was found and his shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs. Just a lone figure on a river bank on the other side of the world where his beautiful only sons life ended. A life full of promise, adventure, daring, ended by a psychopath that will never see the senseless murders as nothing more than a " Cleansing ".
Never.
Charles Sobhraj a devotee of Friedrich Nietzsche. The great Nihilist.
I go straight to the doctors this morning as things have not improved one iota. I am worse if anything. The young female Doctor greets my hobbling morose frame with a
" I bet you have sore ears, shoulders, nasty cough and are hacking up copious phlegm "
I look at her in surprise.
" Why" I whisper, " I mean how do you know that ? "
She shrugs and laughs a delightful plump Indian elf and I cough a laugh too. She is the Doctor after all and no doubt has seen many like me in the last few weeks.
She checks my ears, lungs, throat and it turns out I have a major infection of the upper respiratory tract. My lungs are not clear after all. Curses on that idiot Doctor that came so late on Saturday night.
My ears, nasal passages, sinuses, throat and lungs are aflame with bacteria.
I knew it.
I struggle home in the hail. I had to go out this morning even though it's just five degrees and hail lies in the street like snow. It's sleeting now, and I shiver as I get in the car. I should have stayed home but the thought of an interminable wait of another home visit Doctor was an anathema to me.
My cough is a long drawn out wet bronchial one and I have to stop and spit up the phlegm or I know I will vomit it up.
I think of those kids that died at the hand of Charles Sobhraj and I want to cry but I know I can't. I think of the Father of Ved, the young Turkish boy dressed in exotic clothes. A young peacock, a hippy, a small time dealer who dealt and organised willing couriers to carry heroin for him. Disdaining to touch the stuff himself. A shy boy.
I think of his Father staring out at the river and sky where his sons body was found and his shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs. Just a lone figure on a river bank on the other side of the world where his beautiful only sons life ended. A life full of promise, adventure, daring, ended by a psychopath that will never see the senseless murders as nothing more than a " Cleansing ".
Never.
Charles Sobhraj a devotee of Friedrich Nietzsche. The great Nihilist.
Nihilism
Nihilism is the belief that all values are baseless and that nothing can be known or communicated. It is often associated with extreme pessimism and a radical skepticism that condemns existence. A true nihilist would believe in nothing, have no loyalties, and no purpose other than, perhaps, an impulse to destroy. While few philosophers would claim to be nihilists, nihilism is most often associated with Friedrich Nietzsche who argued that its corrosive effects would eventually destroy all moral, religious, and metaphysical convictions and precipitate the greatest crisis in human history. In the 20th century, nihilistic themes--epistemological failure, value destruction, and cosmic purposelessness--have preoccupied artists, social critics, and philosophers. Mid-century, for example, the existentialists helped popularize tenets of nihilism in their attempts to blunt its destructive potential. By the end of the century, existential despair as a response to nihilism gave way to an attitude of indifference, often associated with antifoundationalism.
