No Nirvana

This world is no Nirvana, where peaceful pleasure flows. It is a gruesome butcher shop, where slain men hang in rows.
This old earth is strewn to the very mountaintops with the fleshless skulls and rain bleached bones of perished combatants in countless myriads. Every square foot, every inch, of soil contains its man.
Skyward or hellward, man moves on and on and on. If there are barricades in his way, he must surmount them or blast them aside. If there are wild beasts ready to spring upon him, he must destroy them or they will destroy him. If the high road leads though hells, then those infernos must be besieged, assailed and taken possession of, even if their present monarchs have to be rooted-out with weapons as demonic and deadly as their own.
This world is too peaceful, too acquiescent, too tame. It is a circumcised world, a castrated world. It must be made fiercer, before it can become grander and better and more natural.
Terror, torture, agony, and the wholesale destruction of feeble and worn out types, must mark in future, as in the past, every step forward, or backward in evolution. The soil of every nation is an arena, a stamping ground, where only the most vigorous animals may hope to hold their own. What is all history but the epic of a colossal campaign, the final Armageddon of which is never likely to be fought, because, when men cease to fight, they cease to be men.
The normal man is the man that loves and feasts and fights and hunts, the predatory man. The abnormal man is he that toils for a master, half-starves, and "thinks", the Christly dog. The first is a perfect animal; the second, a perfect monster.
The flow of Destruction is as natural and as needful as the flow of water. No human ingenuity can destroy the Immolation of Man, nor prevent the shedding of blood, and why should it? Majestic Nature continues on her tragic way serenely, caring naught for the wails of the agonized and panic-stricken nor the protests of defeat; but smiling sadly, proudly at the victor’s fierce Hurrah. She loves the writhing of sword-blades — the rending of tradition, the crunching of bones, and the flap of shredded shot-torn banners, streaming out savagely, in the night, in the day, over the battle-weary, the mangled dying and the swollen dead.
Christs may come and Christs may go, but Caesar lives forever.