The expendable are often marked not by their choices, but by their lack of social legibility—illness, unpredictability, incoherence, poverty, or what the biopolitical gods call “error.” Moral and medical categories blur until it’s totally normal to call someone unwell, then unworthy, and then dead. But don’t worry—it’s all done in the name of harmony and civic virtue.
The “we” of the reasonable is haunted, constructed from the blood and negation of the other. Nature became a backdrop of moral innocence, a pastoral hallucination that excused the grotesque. The roses bloom because someone else bleeds. The garden is beautiful because it excludes. This obsession with aesthetic purity wasn’t some awkward contradiction—it was central to fascist ideology. The fascists didn’t garden in spite of mass extermination. They gardened because of it. It was their form of divine balance: remove the weeds (read: people they deemed unfit), and the tulips of civilization can finally bloom.
LLM