The idealist delegates his animality to the men he debases. He eats beasts killed by brutes. He relegates to prostitutes the vices his morality and his wife condemn. He leaves his vanquished, his children, to the various functionaries of punishment. He throws out his refuse for those of humbler means to collect it again. He entrusts his dirty laundry, his tacky hair, his black fingernails, his fetid skin, his rotten teeth, his decaying organs, his impotent glands, his dead muscles, to a hundred slavish dirt-removers, drainers, doctors. It is others who pay him and cook for him whatever might appease his hunger and drunkenliness.
Relieved of the toils of the flesh, our humanist seeks angels and masses, spiritual perfumes, medals, crosses, celestial arts. He wrinkles his nose in disgust if he hears a crude word, if science attacks him, if he reads any sort of realism. Toward such materialism he is indignant: he’s got a soul, he does.
from Adécédaire Malveillant by Tony Duvert, via Dennis Cooper’s old blog