I should not have blamed only my father, but, he was the first to introduce me to raw and stupid hatred. he was really best at it: anything and everything made him mad-things of the slightest consequence brought his hatred quickly to the surface and I seemed to be the main source of his irritation. I did not fear him but his rages made me ill at heart for he was most of my world then and it was a world of horror but I should not have blamed only my father for when I left that... home... I found his counterparts everywhere: my father was only a small part of the whole, though he was the best at hatred I was ever to meet. but others were very good at it too: some of the foremen, some of the street bums, some of the women I was to live with, most of the women, were gifted at hating-blaming my voice, my actions, my presence blaming me for what they, in retrospect, had failed at. I was simply the target of their discontent and in some real sense they blamed me for not being able to rouse them out of a failed past; what they didn't consider was that I had my troubles too-most of them caused by simply living with them.
I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even stupidly happy almost without cause and left alone I am mostly content.
but I've lived so often and so long with this hatred that my only freedom, my only peace is when I am away from them, when I am anywhere else, no matter where- some fat old waitress bringing me a cup of coffee is in comparison like a fresh wild wind blowing.