July 26, 2011

♫♫ Ain't Time for no Halcion Daze no mo' ♪ ♪

I am not, indeed, sure whether it is not true to say that Buckyball which was once not unlike Cordapio's Noli Me Bovver  of the nineteenth-century had not become dated before its time.  Above all, one musn't play ducks and drakes with a naive battery of idioms which prescribes such egregious collocations of vocables as the metiore of HOITNBT.  On the one side we have the free personality: by definition it is not neurotic, for it has neither dream nor conflict. Its desires, such as they are, are transparent, for they are just what institutional approval keeps in the forefront of consciousness; another institutional pattern would alter their number and intensity; there is little in them that is natural, irreducible, or culturally dangerous. But on the other side, the social bond itself is nothing but the mutual reflection of these self-secure integrities. Recall the definition of arete. Is not this the very picture of a small academic? Where is there a place in this hall of mirrors for either personality or fraternity?   All the 'best people' I know are from the millieu of atavism and all the frantic Fascist captains, united in common hatred of Socialism and bestial horror of the rising tide of the mass revolutionary movement, have turned to acts of provocation, to foul incendiarism, to medieval legends of poisoned wells, to legalize their own destruction to proletarian organizations and community organizing, and rouse the agitated petty-bourgeoisie to chauvinistic fervor on behalf of the fight against the revolutionary way out of the crisis.  Fie upon them.   If a new spirit is to be infused into this country, there is one thorny and contentious reform which must be tackled, and that is the humanization and galvanization of the nieu downtrodden.  Timidity here will bespeak canker and atrophy of the soul. The heart of America may be sound and of strong beat, for instance, but the Eagle's scream at present is like that of Bottom in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream — as gentle as any sucking dove. A virile new America cannot continue indefinitely to be traduced in the eyes, or rather ears, of the world by the effete languors of Foggy Bottom, brazenly masquerading as 'standard English'. When the Voice of America is heard at nine o'clock, better far and infinitely less ludicrous to hear aitches honestly dropped than the present priggish, inflated, inhibited, schoolmarmish arch braying of blameless, bashful mewing maidens!

Heads on pikes, Gentleman.  Co-opt the weak, reap wiki and let slip the wogs of cor.  To the ramparts!


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