Clergyman's

“Did you find anything special?’ Blackie asked.T. nodded. ‘Come over here,’ he said, ‘and look.’ Out of both pockets he drew bundles of pound notes. ‘Old Misery’s savings,’ he said. ‘Mike ripped out the mattress, but he missed them.”What are you going to do? Share them?”We aren’t thieves,’ T. said. ‘Nobody’s going to steal anything from this house. I kept these for you and me – a celebration.’ He knelt down on the floor and counted them out – there were seventy in all. ‘We’ll burn them,’ he said, ‘one by one,’ and taking it in turns they held a note upwards and lit the top corner, so that the flame burnt slowly towards their fingers. The grey ash floated above them and fell on their heads like age. ‘I’d like to see Old Misery’s face when we are through,’ T. said.’You hate him a lot?’ Blackie asked.’Of course I don’t hate him,’ T. said. ‘There’d be no fun if I hated him.’ The last burning note illuminated his brooding face. ‘All this hate and love,’ he said, ‘it’s soft, it’s hooey. There’s only things, Blackie,’ and he looked round the room crowded with the unfamiliar shadows of half things, broken things, former things. ‘I’ll race you home, Blackie,’ he said. (“The Destructors”)”
— Graham Greene

“Love turns, with little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal.”
— William Hazlitt

“There’s hardly anybody who doesn’t hate somebody now, and nobody at all whom somebody doesn’t hate.”
— Jonathan Franzen