He couldn't stand anyone. He was born into hatred. In a dugout in a remote village. His mother was a fat, clumsy woman; she carried all her children for so long during pregnancy that she didn't even notice her belly. Childbirth was like vomit: she spat them out, put them to bed, and went back to work in the fields. She breastfed them whenever she remembered—in short, she didn't care. Accordingly, the children were indifferent to each other and to their parents. Apparently, love, like reading and writing, also needs to be learned: if you don't have a teacher, you are left without love.