Europe is sick. It did not heal its wounds. It is hurt. It is full of memories of the imperial grandeur, of egotist frustrations, of superiority or inferiority complexes, of historical prejudices.
For example a former grand empire reigning over almost half of the continent with a capital of lights, sucking the blood of the whole European East, the Austro Hungarian Empire found itself after the Great War and the emancipation of the nations a poor mountainous province of the size of Banat. The people did not stand in the queue for the cake of Queen Teresa and they did not bear anymore the boot of the Habsburg. There it originates the wild hate on the new states with old peoples. You can see it in the racism of the worker from the gas station and in the grin of the customs officer who asks you to take out everything you have in the car, in the icy coldness of the maid and in the frowning of the stall seller from Weihnachtsmarkt, in the raised tone of the Viennese Catholic priest with whom you speak. Europe is hurt and without Christ is the most deplorable courtesan at the dining tables of history.
