The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
 
And so the real slobbering underbelly of society the perverted bag of pus of religion caged by a free society have been released by the vermin of MPs, dirty criminal animals told they have rights over civilized people, told it is criminal to offend the foul smelly offal, their deranged and foul beliefs are not to be derided, mocked, insulted, their hatred and fear of the free world and determination to destroy it is to be upheld and encouraged.  Without a hair the vermin of politicians give psychopaths, twisted sexually diseased criminals the right to prosecute civilized, decent rational people. 
 
I refer this court to the work of Voltaire, I refer this court to the work of Diderot, I refer this court to the work of Paine, I refer this court to the work of Marx, Engels, Lenin, I refer this court to the Dave Allen Show, I refer this court to Monty Python, I refer this court to Douglas Adams.  I refer this court to Woodstock.  I refer this court to Hair.  I refer this court to Greer, Friedan, Steinem. 
 
It is of course all completely ludicrous and insane, a mixture of the illiterate slum animals of the fascist fake Left, the cold insolent evil of politicians and indigenous clergy and the ravings of foreign religious who know nothing of England.
 
Perhaps the Law Lords would like to justify the presence on the statute books of legislation whereby a normal educated Englishwoman can be prosecuted by a sexually diseased monkey whose conduct merits being sectioned.
 
Is 24 years not long enough in which to remove laws made by traitors for slaves, sickening corrupt law that gives sickening psychopathic perverts rights over me?
 
Moving against these filth is of course distinct from helping me.  Ooh, ooh, they’ll sue.
 
I refer this court, etc.  Of course they want to be identified, to bask in the blinding sunlight of the glare of publicity.  They want their numerous crimes public knowledge.  They want their private lives fully investigated.  They want their stupidity and ignorance and irrationality plain to the world.
 
They really really want my bent and broken body on the front pages of every newspaper in the western world. 
 
About my own exercises in law-breaking I have this to say:
 
Fuck laws made by traitors for slaves, made to protect evil, laws that remove ownership of their own minds and bodies from people and make them frightened to think and speak, laws that are  simply legalized violence to make people keep our fucking marfs shut.
 
But a rather more detailed analysis…
Communists make no mechanical division between legality and illegality under the conditions of bourgeois rule. They are not opposites, but different moments in the development of the class struggle.Democratic rights under capitalism are not granted by the generosity of the ruling class. Nor are they inherent in the system. They have been won by struggle in the face of fierce opposition by generation after generation of working people.Draft Programme of the CPGB
 
[Or was when this was written.]
 
OK, I did the good little bourgeois stuff.  So you expected me to continue behaving like a nervous little law-abiding bourgeoise, did you, in the face of your total criminality?  You wanted ‘no rules’, fuckers, you got ‘no rules’.  I like to think it wrong-footed them.  I was of course already raw from what happened at the Royal Free, to which you will recall my reaction was that of Fiver in the Death Warren.  People of my background do not I think make a habit of running to MI5, even if it’s only to say, “Hazel, Hazel, they’re the wrong kind of snow.” Indeed I have little doubt the version of those events and of me that is standard form is that propagated by Professor Dame Bellatrix and any fact I disseminate is regarded as lies since it fails to agree, checking verifiable fact being beyond the ability of the assembled company.
 
Oh, I really mean it, Bellatrix, I surely do.
 
So come on, sue me for Plato, sue me for Homer, sue for Sophocles, sue me for Euripides, sue me for Xenophanes, Xenophon, Thucydides, Ovid, sue me for Marx, especially, sue me for Lenin, sue me for Engels, sue me for Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, sue me for Paine, Voltaire, Diderot, Montesquieu, Racine, Corneille, Baudelaire, Zola, Balzac, Sartre, Camus, Giradoux, Prevert, sue me for Rumi, Hafiz, ibn Arabi, Khayyam, sue me for Buddha, for Lao-Tze, for the Vedas, sue me for Byron, Shelley, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Auden, Wilde, Sitwell, Spender, Eliot,  Sue me for Tolstoy, for Tolkien, for Stephen Donaldson, Julian May, TH White,  Salman Rushdie, Nicholas Montsarrat, Rumer Goden, Len Deighton, JK Rowling, and thousands of others, sue me especially for Schrodinger, Einstein. Tell you what,  ape, sue me for having the temerity to point out we live in a quantum universe or universes not the universe as depicted by your monkey-shit religion. Sue me for pointing out e = mc2. Sue me for having studied English, French, German, Italian and Latin grammar, come on you dirty illiterate ignorant animal, you know you ain’t having that. Sue me for not being a sly, sordid, dirty, cowardly liar, a squalid cockroach that creeps around behind closed doors.  You certainly ain’t having that.

Sue me for having read a thousand books you’ve never heard of, and starting from somewhere different to your lame empty narrow stupid irrational brain.  That ain’t allowed, is it, cos you got Troof. Sue me for being educated when you are ignorant and ineducable, which is what your hysteria amounts to.  Sue me for being intelligent, which is what your hysteria amounts to.   Of course no educated person is going to think what the ignorant think.  Labour has a solution!  Exterminate the educated.  This of course was basically the solution of both Hitler and Stalin. The reality of the society I which they dwell and in which people possess hundreds of different ideas, many directly opposed to their own, offends them and is a threat.  Labour’s cute solution is that everyone else must cede.
 
Of Kirit it may be said/He read a book.  It hurt his head/Not liking such a pain/He never read a book again. 
 
Or any of them. Philistines, savages, barbarians.
 
1933 is readily recalled as the year Hitler was elected, but it’s also the year Schroedinger got his Nobel prize for physics.
It’s a useful dichotomy.  The ape will win or civilization, knowledge and reason will win. 
It is forbidden to reside in a mental world unacceptable to a sick monkey.  Forbidden, forbidden!
Tough fucking shit.  It’s called the C21st.
 
I am not a classicist.  I have a degree in French with Italian, what is possibly now an old-fashioned degree in French with Italian, in which one studied French and Italian literature from the time it first came into being, something it is not possible to do without becoming almost as immersed in classical sources, classical history, classical myth as the writers themselves.  On the House of Atreus I am good, or was.   I do think Johnson should note that immersion in the classical world and attendant intimacy with the Greek and Roman pantheons  is now a very dangerous place to be, especially if one is a woman;  one is held guilty of witchcraft.
 
They really didn’t like my poem at all:

I refer this court to the work of Kenneth Grahame:
 
The Wind in the Willows
by
Kenneth Grahame Part 2 out of 4
VII

THE PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN

The Willow-Wren was twittering his thin little song, hidden himself in
the dark selvedge of the river bank. Though it was past ten o'clock
at night, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of
light from the departed day; and the sullen heats of the torrid
afternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispersing touch of the cool
fingers of the short midsummer night. Mole lay stretched on the bank,
still panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been
cloudless from dawn to late sunset, and waited for his friend to
return. He had been on the river with some companions, leaving the
Water Rat free to keep a engagement of long standing with Otter; and
he had come back to find the house dark and deserted, and no sign of
Rat, who was doubtless keeping it up late with his old comrade. It was
still too hot to think of staying indoors, so he lay on some cool
dock-leaves, and thought over the past day and its doings, and how
very good they all had been.

The Rat's light footfall was presently heard approaching over the
parched grass. 'O, the blessed coolness!' he said, and sat down,
gazing thoughtfully into the river, silent and pre-occupied.

'You stayed to supper, of course?' said the Mole presently.

'Simply had to,' said the Rat. 'They wouldn't hear of my going
before. You know how kind they always are. And they made things as
jolly for me as ever they could, right up to the moment I left. But I
felt a brute all the time, as it was clear to me they were very
unhappy, though they tried to hide it. Mole, I'm afraid they're in
trouble. Little Portly is missing again; and you know what a lot his
father thinks of him, though he never says much about it.'

'What, that child?' said the Mole lightly. 'Well, suppose he is; why
worry about it? He's always straying off and getting lost, and
turning up again; he's so adventurous. But no harm ever happens to
him. Everybody hereabouts knows him and likes him, just as they do
old Otter, and you may be sure some animal or other will come across
him and bring him back again all right. Why, we've found him
ourselves, miles from home, and quite self-possessed and cheerful!'

'Yes; but this time it's more serious,' said the Rat gravely. 'He's
been missing for some days now, and the Otters have hunted everywhere,
high and low, without finding the slightest trace. And they've asked
every animal, too, for miles around, and no one knows anything about
him. Otter's evidently more anxious than he'll admit. I got out of
him that young Portly hasn't learnt to swim very well yet, and I can
see he's thinking of the weir. There's a lot of water coming down
still, considering the time of the year, and the place always had a
fascination for the child. And then there are--well, traps and
things--YOU know. Otter's not the fellow to be nervous about any son
of his before it's time. And now he IS nervous. When I left, he came
out with me--said he wanted some air, and talked about stretching his
legs. But I could see it wasn't that, so I drew him out and pumped
him, and got it all from him at last. He was going to spend the night
watching by the ford. You know the place where the old ford used to
be, in by-gone days before they built the bridge?'

'I know it well,' said the Mole. 'But why should Otter choose to
watch there?'

'Well, it seems that it was there he gave Portly his first
swimming-lesson,' continued the Rat. 'From that shallow, gravelly
spit near the bank. And it was there he used to teach him fishing,
and there young Portly caught his first fish, of which he was so very
proud. The child loved the spot, and Otter thinks that if he came
wandering back from wherever he is--if he IS anywhere by this time,
poor little chap--he might make for the ford he was so fond of; or if
he came across it he'd remember it well, and stop there and play,
perhaps. So Otter goes there every night and watches--on the chance,
you know, just on the chance!'

They were silent for a time, both thinking of the same thing--the
lonely, heart-sore animal, crouched by the ford, watching and waiting,
the long night through--on the chance.

'Well, well,' said the Rat presently, 'I suppose we ought to be
thinking about turning in.' But he never offered to move.

'Rat,' said the Mole, 'I simply can't go and turn in, and go to sleep,
and DO nothing, even though there doesn't seem to be anything to be
done. We'll get the boat out, and paddle up stream. The moon will be
up in an hour or so, and then we will search as well as we can--
anyhow, it will be better than going to bed and doing NOTHING.'

'Just what I was thinking myself,' said the Rat. 'It's not the sort
of night for bed anyhow; and daybreak is not so very far off, and then
we may pick up some news of him from early risers as we go along.'

They got the boat out, and the Rat took the sculls, paddling with
caution. Out in midstream, there was a clear, narrow track that
faintly reflected the sky; but wherever shadows fell on the water from
bank, bush, or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks
themselves, and the Mole had to steer with judgment accordingly. Dark
and deserted as it was, the night was full of small noises, song and
chatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were
up and about, plying their trades and vocations through the night till
sunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their
well-earned repose. The water's own noises, too, were more apparent
than by day, its gurglings and 'cloops' more unexpected and near at
hand; and constantly they started at what seemed a sudden clear call
from an actual articulate voice.

The line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one
particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing
phosphorescence that grew and grew. At last, over the rim of the
waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of
the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began
to see surfaces--meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river
itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of
mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference
that was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other
raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel
and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they
would be recognised again under it.

Fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent,
silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees,
the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways.
Embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream
in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless
sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their
quest; till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and
left them, and mystery once more held field and river.

Then a change began slowly to declare itself. The horizon became
clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a
different look; the mystery began to drop away from them. A bird
piped suddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set
the reeds and bulrushes rustling. Rat, who was in the stern of the
boat, while Mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a
passionate intentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping
the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him
with curiosity.

'It's gone!' sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. 'So
beautiful and strange and new. Since it was to end so soon, I almost
wish I had never heard it. For it has roused a longing in me that is
pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once
more and go on listening to it for ever. No! There it is again!' he
cried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long space,
spellbound.

'Now it passes on and I begin to lose it,' he said presently. 'O
Mole! the beauty of it! The merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear,
happy call of the distant piping! Such music I never dreamed of, and
the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet! Row on,
Mole, row! For the music and the call must be for us.'

The Mole, greatly wondering, obeyed. 'I hear nothing myself,' he
said, 'but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers.'

The Rat never answered, if indeed he heard. Rapt, transported,
trembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing
that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless
but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp.

In silence Mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where
the river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. With a
slight movement of his head Rat, who had long dropped the
rudder-lines, directed the rower to take the backwater. The creeping
tide of light gained and gained, and now they could see the colour of
the flowers that gemmed the water's edge.

'Clearer and nearer still,' cried the Rat joyously. 'Now you must
surely hear it! Ah--at last--I see you do!'

Breathless and transfixed the Mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of
that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and
possessed him utterly. He saw the tears on his comrade's cheeks, and
bowed his head and understood. For a space they hung there, brushed
by the purple loose-strife that fringed the bank; then the clear
imperious summons that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating
melody imposed its will on Mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars
again. And the light grew steadily stronger, but no birds sang as
they were wont to do at the approach of dawn; and but for the heavenly
music all was marvellously still.

On either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass
seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable.
Never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous,
the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. Then the murmur of the
approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness
that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely
awaited their expedition.

A wide half-circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders
of green water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank,
troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating
foam-streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and
soothing rumble. In midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir's
shimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with
willow and silver birch and alder. Reserved, shy, but full of
significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it
till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called
and chosen.

Slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of
a solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken
tumultuous water and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the
island. In silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and
scented herbage and undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till
they stood on a little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with
Nature's own orchard-trees--crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe.

'This is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to
me,' whispered the Rat, as if in a trance. 'Here, in this holy place,
here if anywhere, surely we shall find Him!'

Then suddenly the Mole felt a great Awe fall upon him, an awe that
turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to
the ground. It was no panic terror--indeed he felt wonderfully at
peace and happy--but it was an awe that smote and held him and,
without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august Presence
was very, very near. With difficulty he turned to look for his
friend and saw him at his side cowed, stricken, and trembling
violently. And still there was utter silence in the populous
bird-haunted branches around them; and still the light grew and grew.

Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though
the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still
dominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself
waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on
things rightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his
humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn,
while Nature, flushed with fullness of incredible colour, seemed to
hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the
Friend and Helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns,
gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between
the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humourously, while the
bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling
muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple
hand still holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted
lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic
ease on the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves,
sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round,
podgy, childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one
moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as
he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.

'Rat!' he found breath to whisper, shaking. 'Are you afraid?'

'Afraid?' murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love.
'Afraid! Of HIM? O, never, never! And yet--and yet--O, Mole, I am
afraid!'

Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and
did worship.

Sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disc showed itself over
the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level
water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them.
When they were able to look once more, the Vision had vanished, and
the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.

As they stared blankly in dumb misery deepening as they slowly
realised all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little
breeze, dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens,
shook the dewy roses and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces;
and with its soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last
best gift that the kindly demi-god is careful to bestow on those to
whom he has revealed himself in their helping: the gift of
forgetfulness. Lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow, and
overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should
spoil all the after-lives of little animals helped out of
difficulties, in order that they should be happy and lighthearted as
before.

Mole rubbed his eyes and stared at Rat, who was looking about him in a
puzzled sort of way. 'I beg your pardon; what did you say, Rat?' he
asked.

'I think I was only remarking,' said Rat slowly, 'that this was the
right sort of place, and that here, if anywhere, we should find him.
And look! Why, there he is, the little fellow!' And with a cry of
delight he ran towards the slumbering Portly.

But Mole stood still a moment, held in thought. As one wakened
suddenly from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, and can
re-capture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty!
Till that, too, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly
accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties; so Mole, after
struggling with his memory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and
followed the Rat.

Portly woke up with a joyous squeak, and wriggled with pleasure at the
sight of his father's friends, who had played with him so often in
past days. In a moment, however, his face grew blank, and he fell to
hunting round in a circle with pleading whine. As a child that has
fallen happily asleep in its nurse's arms, and wakes to find itself
alone and laid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards,
and runs from room to room, despair growing silently in its heart,
even so Portly searched the island and searched, dogged and
unwearying, till at last the black moment came for giving it up, and
sitting down and crying bitterly.

The Mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal; but Rat, lingering,
looked long and doubtfully at certain hoof-marks deep in the sward.

'Some--great--animal--has been here,' he murmured slowly and
thoughtfully; and stood musing, musing; his mind strangely stirred.

'Come along, Rat!' called the Mole. 'Think of poor Otter, waiting up
there by the ford!'

Portly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat--a jaunt on
the river in Mr. Rat's real boat; and the two animals conducted him to
the water's side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of
the boat, and paddled off down the backwater. The sun was fully up by
now, and hot on them, birds sang lustily and without restraint, and
flowers smiled and nodded from either bank, but somehow--so thought
the animals--with less of richness and blaze of colour than they
seemed to remember seeing quite recently somewhere--they wondered
where.

The main river reached again, they turned the boat's head upstream,
towards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely
vigil. As they drew near the familiar ford, the Mole took the boat in
to the bank, and they lifted Portly out and set him on his legs on the
tow-path, gave him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat on
the back, and shoved out into mid-stream. They watched the little
animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance;
watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle
break into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines
and wriggles of recognition. Looking up the river, they could see
Otter start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he
crouched in dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark
as he bounded up through the osiers on to the path. Then the Mole,
with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full
stream bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily
ended.

'I feel strangely tired, Rat,' said the Mole, leaning wearily over his
oars as the boat drifted. 'It's being up all night, you'll say,
perhaps; but that's nothing. We do as much half the nights of the
week, at this time of the year. No; I feel as if I had been through
something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over; and
yet nothing particular has happened.'

'Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful,' murmured
the Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. 'I feel just as you do,
Mole; simply dead tired, though not body tired. It's lucky we've got
the stream with us, to take us home. Isn't it jolly to feel the sun
again, soaking into one's bones! And hark to the wind playing in the
reeds!'

'It's like music--far away music,' said the Mole nodding drowsily.

'So I was thinking,' murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid.
'Dance-music--the lilting sort that runs on without a stop--but with
words in it, too--it passes into words and out of them again--I catch
them at intervals--then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing
but the reeds' soft thin whispering.'

'You hear better than I,' said the Mole sadly. 'I cannot catch the
words.'

'Let me try and give you them,' said the Rat softly, his eyes still
closed. 'Now it is turning into words again--faint but clear--Lest
the awe should dwell--And turn your frolic to fret--You shall look on
my power at the helping hour--But then you shall forget! Now the
reeds take it up--forget, forget, they sigh, and it dies away in a
rustle and a whisper. Then the voice returns--

'Lest limbs be reddened and rent--I spring the trap that is set--As I
loose the snare you may glimpse me there--For surely you shall forget!
Row nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds! It is hard to catch, and grows
each minute fainter.

'Helper and healer, I cheer--Small waifs in the woodland wet--Strays I
find in it, wounds I bind in it--Bidding them all forget! Nearer,
Mole, nearer! No, it is no good; the song has died away into
reed-talk.'

'But what do the words mean?' asked the wondering Mole.

'That I do not know,' said the Rat simply. 'I passed them on to you
as they reached me. Ah! now they return again, and this time full and
clear! This time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing,
simple--passionate--perfect----'

'Well, let's have it, then,' said the Mole, after he had waited
patiently for a few minutes, half-dozing in the hot sun.

But no answer came. He looked, and understood the silence. With a
smile of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look
still lingering there, the weary Rat was fast asleep. http://www.fullbooks.com/The-Wind-in-the-Willows2.html
I say, isn’t The Wind in the Willows pretty fucking mainstream too.  Mad, mad, sick, evil, twisted, mad, you’re all fucking mad.  Of course I scream it.
 
But you will not do it, you will not laugh in their foul evil dirty twisted mad animal faces but choose to try to destroy me.
 
Do I not have excellent grounds for regarding government – government after government – security services, the whole machinery of State as a sick and evil joke.
 
I have of course never for a moment denied being a witch: a witch is a strong intelligent woman surrounded by sick animals.
 
Perhaps the sick animals would like to prosecute Amazon or any serious bookshop or www.theoi.com or the Perseus Project: Perseus Digital Library (tufts.edu)
 
Why have these filthy old savages been allowed to crawl out of the primaeval slime and smear themselves all over me, a vile twisted evil old baboon like Ratzinger considered of significance to me?
 
Do rest assured I am not about to surrender either Jesus or Artemis, Plato or Ibn Arabi, the Upanishads or Einstein, Pan or Schroedinger, Voltaire or Marx, Athena or Rumi, to the ravings of cunt-faced filth, dirty stinking obscene traitors, ape creatures, grovellers, sickos, psychos, totally intellectually and morally corrupt filth-monkeys who abandon all fact, reason, ethics for a smile from their master.   Look at the dirt-monkeys, grovelling, how may we best please you, o master, to the ravings of hairless baboons.
 
I – make – me, ape.  I form myself from my natural abilities and proclivities, from what I have made of my experience of life and all I have read. 
 
Sue me for having a house full of books, which is what it really amounts to when the ignorant bonehead mongs squawk and scream at those whose heads are not empty but from sick drivel pumped into them from birth which the castrati are incapable of rationally analysing, just as they are incapable of rationally analysing anyone else’s ideas.
 
Your lack of any observable rational processes, Doctor, is really not my problem.