Man is, by his own estimation, a peaceful creature. He prides himself on his civility, his tolerance, and his ability to discuss disagreements over tea rather than with fists. He signs petitions, shares inspirational quotes, and assures himself that he has risen above the primitive instincts of his ancestors. Yet, if one were to search the quieter corners of his mind, one would almost always discover a modest but vivid catalogue of individuals whose sudden disappearance would not trouble him greatly.
This catalogue is never published, for it would disturb the image he has constructed of himself. He prefers to believe that he is kind, when in reality he is merely supervised by laws, social expectations, and the possibility of embarrassment. Society, therefore, does not eliminate violence; it simply places it under careful management, much like a dangerous animal kept behind glass in a zoo, where it may still bare its teeth, but only for educational purposes.
The modern entertainment industry, being a faithful servant of the human will, understands this arrangement perfectly. It offers the public a series of spectacles in which violence appears not as a regrettable failure of reason, but as a form of moral housekeeping. The hero, usually a man of few words and excellent posture, is confronted by a small army of enemies who obligingly attack him one at a time. He defeats them with admirable efficiency, sustaining only the kind of injuries that enhance his appearance. By the end of the film, justice has been restored, order has returned, and the hero walks away with the calm satisfaction of a man who has just tidied his living room.
The audience leaves the theatre with a peculiar sense of comfort. They have witnessed violence, but only in its most flattering form. It has appeared decisive, meaningful, and strangely elegant. They are reassured that if they themselves were ever forced into such circumstances, they too would behave with similar grace and effectiveness. The possibility that they might instead slip, panic, or make matters far worse does not receive serious consideration.
Reality, however, is not inclined toward elegance. Real violence is clumsy, brief, and frequently irreversible. It does not wait for moral clarity, nor does it consult the participants about the appropriate level of dramatic tension. It occurs suddenly, often over trivial matters, and concludes before anyone involved has fully grasped the situation. The consequences, on the other hand, proceed at a much slower pace, lingering in bodies, reputations, and memories with a persistence that no action sequence could ever portray.
A work such as Blood Meridian is unsettling precisely because it refuses to cooperate with the audience’s expectations. Violence there is not heroic, instructive, or even particularly interesting. It simply happens, as naturally and indifferently as a storm. Men die without speeches, without lessons, and without the courtesy of narrative closure. The effect is less like watching a drama and more like observing a fact.
This stands in sharp contrast to the popular belief that violence is a solution. In reality, violence resembles a debt rather than a payment. It does not settle accounts; it opens new ones. Each act leaves behind grievances, fears, and imitations that travel forward into the future. The man who strikes a blow may believe he has concluded a matter, but he has in fact enrolled himself in a longer and more complicated story.
The human imagination, being fond of pleasant illusions, prefers to dwell on the moment of victory. It pictures the instant in which the opponent falls, the anger dissolves, and a satisfying sense of justice fills the air. What it does not picture is the following week, or the following year, when the consequences begin to assemble themselves with quiet determination. Violence, unlike in the films, does not end when the body stops moving. That is often the moment when its true work begins.
It is therefore not entirely accurate to say that violence returns in some mystical or moral sense. It returns in the much more predictable form of cause and effect. Injuries demand treatment, families demand explanations, authorities demand paperwork, and memories demand attention. None of these are particularly dramatic, but together they form the long tail of a single impulsive act.
The wise person, if such a creature exists, does not pretend to be free of violent thoughts. He simply recognizes that acting upon them would not grant him the peace or dignity he imagines. He understands that the will, when indulged, rarely brings satisfaction, and that every apparent victory carries within it the seed of a new dissatisfaction.
Restraint, then, is not a heroic virtue. It is merely an intelligent one. It is the quiet decision to avoid entering conflicts that promise excitement in the present and complications in the future. It lacks the glamour of cinematic justice, but it has the advantage of allowing a man to sleep without wondering which part of his past is preparing to revisit him.
In this respect, the peaceful man is not the one who lacks violent impulses, but the one who has grown sufficiently tired of their consequences. 😌
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