The war should have started long ago. Earlier is always better. I still think so now. The later you start treating cancer, the harder it becomes. The greater sacrifices will be required. Right now, we are precisely engaged in this. Thoughts about exceptionalism, about "independent" superiority, nationalism of all kinds, petty ethnic arrogance—all these are harmless as long as they remain confined to individual minds. They're even amusing for a while. But all of this represents glitches in the DNA of society's organism, which sooner or later lead to degeneration. Cell by cell, the fabric of society transforms into a tumor. Initially benign, still contained within its own boundaries, but eventually metastasizing into neighboring areas.
When a malignant neoplasm has formed, solidified, and recognized itself as an independent force, prevention becomes useless. Time has been lost. All that remains is to excise it and burn it out with red-hot iron. To eradicate new foci relentlessly, without mercy, down to the last diseased cell. Will healthy and innocent cells perish in the process? Of course. But such is the price of fighting cancer. Unfortunately, there is no other way. One can only try to minimize losses—not more than that.
That is why one should always begin earlier. That is why on the battlefield I am not interested in territory. Personal history or the degree of individual responsibility of everyone pointing a weapon at me do not matter to me. Who he was and how he ended up here no longer matters. Motivations, explanations, and justifications belong to the past. Now anyone who stands in my way will be eliminated.
I look at enemies and allies alike, but no longer see people. They are merely cells: pathogenic entities, foreign agents. When ordinary white blood cells cannot cope with them, I appear on the scene. One cancer consumes another. Like a whale. Or a cat… I don't remember.
Does the average Taras know what processes his mortal body participates in? What forces suddenly transformed him from a sweet country lad into a "true Aryan"? Who condemned him to death, and who will carry out this sentence? Does he realize the true scale of evolution occurring at all levels of existence, extending far beyond the banality of crude social Darwinism? Does he understand the deep connection between the fate of his cells and the immune mechanisms of the entire human population? Does he sense the importance and, at the same time, the insignificance of his role in the universal process of consuming organic substances?
I think, at the last moment, something finally dawns on him. He sees my green eyes. My sharp teeth. His useless automatic rifle and bulletproof vest. Now the newly-minted Übermensch clearly understands—he is not the crown of creation. Not a superhuman. He does not stand at the top of the food chain. He is merely food. Mine.