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I abhor spilled blood, ruins, death. I love life, and all life is sacred to me. That is why I will ask of the anarchist ideal what no form of government has been able to give me: love, beauty, peace among men. Ravachol does not frighten me. He is transitory, like the terror he inspires. He is the thunderclap that gives way to the joy of the sun and calming skies. After the somber work, the dream smiles — a dream of universal harmony, as envisioned by the admirable Kropotkin.
Moreover, society would be wrong to complain. It alone has given birth to Ravachol. It has sown misery; it reaps rebellion. That is just.
