No Rest for the Wicked

I was going to give it a rest today, “it” being politics in general and the Hezbollah War specifically. That was until I read Gerard’s essay of July 31st. Here’s a teaser:

After all, who among us is not moved by endless images of dead babies sheathed in blood, body parts hanging by a shred of gristle, with the blank stare of eternity glazing their eyes? What "civilized" person secure in their happy world of languid summer days, mall festivals brimming with second-rate food and third rate crafts, concerts on the lawn with wine and traveling minstrels, could not want this distant tribal slaughter to stop, stop, stop this very instant?

To see the Bloody Shirt, as the Hezbollah in Lebanon drag their children from the rubble and parade them before the world, is to want all replaced with the Rainbow Flag immediately -- no matter who must suffer, no matter how many Jews must die in that distant country where, "After all the Israelis aren't so much Jewish as they are Zionist oppressors who, if they just gave up a little more, would be left in peace. I mean, look at that. Children are dying every minute there. Have you no compassion, sir? Have you, at long last, no compassion?"

Have I no compassion?

That was a fair question the first time it was posed to me, oh, several decades back. I think I had a lot of compassion back then. I must have had oodles. I must have been soaking in it. At least that's what I conclude when I read the things I wrote and remember the things I did. For awhile, every cause on Earth, every injustice from Cape Horn to Belfast called upon my bottomless well of compassion. The church burnings and bombings in the South during the Civil Rights struggle. The napalmed girl on the road in Vietnam. The carnage of apartheid. And, of course, the 50 years of ceaseless exposure of their dead by the Palestinians.

Powerful and highly unusual stuff. You don’t read this sort of op-ed every day, in fact, I’d venture to say you’ve never read anything like it.

No cease-fire. The war continues until every last one of them is DEAD! And it’s NOT what you might think. Oh no, this is better! (via Feisty)

One of the many reasons I like James Lileks is the sheer quality of the man’s writing. Here are a couple of examples from today’s Bleat. On Raymond Burr:

Man, Bunny could be nine feet of stones, no? He made a great heavy, and for those of us who grew up with him as (trademark quick intake of breath) Perry Mason, seeing him in bad-guy roles is always a treat. The Wikipedia entry says he had a relationship with Natalie Wood, which surprised many people, due to his homosexuality. Really? He was gay, not stupid. If she made a move on him, he probably realized he was obliged to respond – if not for himself, than on behalf of all men. If he’d turned her down, and told the story at the gayest party in Gaytown in the state of West Gayginia in the nation of Gaydonia on the planet Gay, everyone would fall silent, and someone would say you turned down Natalie Wood? What is wrong with you?

On Jane Russell:

Jane Russell. Born in Minnesota of North Dakota parents: that’s my gal. In her “Outlaw” period she was the reason the Society for the Incoherent Reactions to Bosoms added the second “Hubba.”

LitCrit is as far removed from my core competencies as astrophysics, which is to say I have neither the formal training nor the professional standing to be considered a “qualified” writing critic. But, when it comes to good writing I’m like Justice Potter Stewart — I know it when I see it. I feel most of us are in that same boat.

So. I was going to launch into a “what IS good writing, anyway?” type of post but got distracted while making my rounds. I’ll save that for another day, just as I’ve saved so many other things “for another day” and have yet to get around to actually doing it. I am SO lacking in discipline…

Was it something I said? Or didn’t say? As of 0930 this morning I’ve had exactly two visits. I know Blogger isn’t down coz I’ve made my usual rounds and more than a few of my daily reads are hosted on Blogger. I’m hurt. Hurt, I tell you!

/attempt at sardonic wit