(no subject)
Vengeance is probably sort of addictively bitter, like Campari or some of those icky olives that come from Greece or somewhere where people like a bit of quinine aftertaste with their food. It would hardly be sweet; although I’m one of those people who finds it tough not only to hold a grudge but to even remember having one once a bit of time has passed - and a bit of time in this case would refer to a few months. Ok a year tops, I think, but my math is nothing to write home about either. It’s kind of like cataloguing all bruises and limping because you once had a twisted ankle years ago.
Vengeance, once the first blast of fury has spent its force, or once the tide of despair has receded, seems like a pointless endeavor. Unless you whack the other guy in the heat of the moment, it is something that eats you up, corroding you from the inside, taking away those few things that a wrong done against you did not poison. If you can leech out the poison, whatever the loss, that seems to me a blessing. If you cannot, vengeance will not help, but I think distance might.
The one exception is clearly illustrated in my favorite types of movies. If the bad guy is going to continue doing bad stuff, he’s gotta die. That’s not revenge, that’s maintenance.
That said, Inigo Montoya has a special place in my soul; and Le Comte de Monte Cristo is a bitchin’ book.