I need literature that explores evil

he was luciferian also.

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what's the evil version of a 'saint'?

The 120 Days of Sodom

My unpublished manifesto.

This is such a good term, the St. Augustine of Evil, but its tough to fathom if such a person could even exist, someone wholly given over to the corruption and sordid nastiness required of evil deeds. It could not be someone quite like a sociopath. They would instead need to derive some measure of joy from their romp through the dark side. They must receive an energy from it. I'm not sure if evil even works in quite this way. Although abominations exist, many evils extend from greed and sloth rather than, for instance, some murderous fugue state that bestows delight with every head you cave in, ever scalp torn from skull. As a thought experiment, its hard to imagine not relishing some dimension of such frenzy, but in most cases the disciplines required of those who muster survival seem to distance them from the worst evils. I try to conceive of war criminals as your St. Augustine of Evil and I still cannot see it. I cannot think of any war criminal who wasn't born an angel, who wasn't set upon mundane, pedestrian and neutral ambitions early in life before they were pushed into war by history.

There's those cases of US soldiers who after an umpteenth deployment to yet another wholly forsaken hellhole to guard birth control shipment routes and deliveries of branded Planned Parenthood forceps to illiterate stateless peoples, they up and decide to become a revised Army of One, that being the recruitment marketing campaign coincident with many enlisting, and stroll surreptitiously out of the wire of their FOB or Halliburton-constructed freshman-dorm-room-on-a-dry-campus-tier pleasure palace, using that same surreptitious skillset to hoist over their shoulders several high powered weapons appropriated for their quest into that moonlit village over yonder ridge, the one emanating blossoming fruit trees, tobacco smoke and the most rare mortar rounds, that tonight, yes, this very night, meets with the terrible fresh hell deliverable only by the luxuriously-trained and financed US soldier, as much a doomsday weapon as mustard gas, a wholly optimistic plucky cyborg deployable anywhere, loyal to a syncretic experiment of corporatized empire, performing its sacred errands for his entire youth, sublimated zealotries the same as sexualities focused and routed into a canal for the state's useful work, a man made device, numbering hundreds of thousands, tantalizingly ready to receive bidding, but for tonight, where our bidding is more mysterious, driven by a bit of a wry fissure with reality, as if all code from nicety to mortal sins we're a bad hallucination's uproarious joke, he almost fell for it in whole, before recognizing, honestly, what of maybe, just for tonight, nestling the bi-pod cozily into the dirty, taking time to feel it settle and meet the earth, drawing invisible circles around their scarved and hooded heads with the tritium reticles, luminous like sunlit algae, unusual and pretty, deeply comforting on all nights you can readily remember, here too the best thing to fire light and hot cocoa is the clear clean glass and those green notches and arrows and triangles that now merely looking at them reduced his heart rate, blood pressure, affecting a trained and reflexive calm that was still mentally and physiologically truthfully a calmness as any, just that this one helped the machine-gunner's nerve's settle, opening in their more calm mind's the clarity to plot paths and note positions, to feel the battlespace, to open their senses to it, to be ready, to be listening,

to feel it on every level tangible and other, ready for Mars or Loki to appear and dare us and set odds and rewards, who did not hasten to the village's predicament even as the phosphoric tracers poured down from the overlooking ridge, the glowing red cheerleaders to the hot munitions sailing into dirt, rock, truck beds, car hoods, bellies, brains, torsos and tracheae, a highly horizontal shower of lead that cut dozens to writhing bedraggled smitherines as the stragglers sprinted with all spirit and strength pushed to gain all desperate distance from that terrible place where the mountainside opened up with a linear fusillade and sent into the ever eroding dusts whole generations of trees of lineages lost as most have been lost without any consequence or bump in the toils of the remnant humanity.

Finance text books.

olvin weplainis

the sickness

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Talmud, unironicially

ITT: Everyone post your most evil deeds haha

that particular word has a contemporary context which has no meaningful relation to the mid-19th century European subject to whom it is ascribed.

beautiful. I liked the movement from the concrete to the mystical

I don't think literature ever explores anything btw

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why do you think literature explores nothing when it clearly does?

On the Jews and Their Lies by Martin Luther

I just googled the meaning of 'to explore' and it says 'travel through (an unfamiliar area) in order to learn about it.' How does literature travel through anything? I can't even say that Crime and punishment teaches anything about crime or guilt, since it's only a specific story written by a specific guy. I mean a work of literature is made of words that do not have any kind of necessary relationship with reality (unless we're talking about non fiction).
The simple statement saying that Crime and punishment (for instance) is about crime and guilt is very debatable.

my novel explores existence, that cant be questioned