Mankind's capacity for selfishness doesn't interest me. I am all too familiar with the vile thing. I need not look any further than my most secret desires to confirm that man is, in his natural state, inherently and passionately selfish.
No what interests me, and is by far the worthier study, is man's capacity for love. It is all at once the most natural and most foreign thing to man's fundamental nature. The boundaries of love are still undiscovered by mankind and it's true abilities are still not fully understood. I don't believe there is a man born capable of such exploration.
Love conquers and heals. It terrifies and comforts. It's universal, yet deeply, deeply personal. It's a paradox worthy of the greatest mind, yet understood by an infant. Surely there is nothing greater in the whole of existence.
So why should a man dwell on the bile when he can seek after the transcendent? Why tell self indulgent stories of vice when the unexplored country lies beyond? While art is meant to show us who we are, perhaps the greatest art is meant to yearn after mankind's great potential. I, for one, prefer the latter.
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