This violence, oh, how it draws me to it like a fly to honey, though the repercussions, such as that of pain and guilt, of this intense action repulses me as if the sweet substance were only coating vinegar.
These were autumn mornings, the time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. — Rabindranath Tagore, The Cabuliwallah
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