Destruction is the only end that the mystics’ creed has ever achieved, as it is
the only end that you see them achieving today, and if the ravages wrought by
their acts have not made them question their doctrines, if they profess to be
moved by love, yet are not deterred by piles of human corpses, it is because
the truth about their souls is worse than the obscene excuse you have allowed
them, the excuse that the end justifies the means and that the horrors they
practice are means to nobler ends. The truth is that those horrors are their
ends.
You who’re depraved enough to believe that you could adjust yourself to a
mystic’s dictatorship and could please him by obeying his orders—there is no
way to please him; when you obey, he will reverse his orders; he seeks
obedience for the sake of obedience and destruction for the sake of
destruction. You who are craven enough to believe that you can make terms with
a mystic by giving in to his extortions—there is no way to buy him off, the
bribe he wants is your life, as slowly or as fast as you are willing to give it
in—and the monster he seeks to bribe is the hidden blank-out in his mind,
which drives him to kill in order not to learn that the death he desires is his
own.