William Hazlitt, The pleasure of hating, (1826) 2004, p.105

Nature seems (the more we look into it) made up of antipathies: without something to hate, we should lose the very spring of thought and action. Life would turn to a stagnant pool, were it not ruffled by the jarring interests, the unruly passions of men.

Pure good soon grows insipid, wants variety and spirit. Pain is bitter-sweet, which never surfeits. Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal.

William Hazlitt, The pleasure of hating, (1826) 2004, p.105
Mike Newman Workshop 2005