Who dares misery love,
And hug the form of death,
Dance in destruction's dance
To him the Mother comes.

Vivekananda



Which, if you mean by "misery" the misery of innocents, and by "Mother" your delight in and essential indifference to it, is just what the comte de Sade meant (insofar as meant anything at all). The perfection, of what Jesus said some would be better hanged with millstones and drowned in the depths of the sea for, is waxing sentimental about it. What an invitation to the cheapest and easiest sort of self-congratulation is that "dares"! And of course the principle invoked here is feminine. Feminine as in soap operas and "romance" novels, shit and tears, blood and semen.