The Last WordEverything begins in mysticism and ends in politics. The voice of reason is small, but very persistent. Art renders accessible to men of the latest generations all the feelings experienced by their predecessors and also those felt by their best and foremost contemporaries. Words, unlike disciplined soldiers, refuse to remain in place and take orders. They insist on being unruly, and slither and slide around, picking up all sorts of slippery and even goofy meanings. The illegal we do immediately. The unconstitutional takes a little longer. An artist must be a reactionary. He has to stand out against the tenor of the age and not go flopping along; he must offer some little opposition. We ought to depoliticize our lives, free them from politics as from some contagious infection. We ought to free our simple everyday affairs from considerations of politics. Hath the Lord as great delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams. Blog reading for me is like going down to the cellar amid shelves and shelves of musty books that you're condemned to turn the pages of. If the national mental illness of the United States is megalomania, that of Canada is paranoid schizophrenia. Remarks are not literature. If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear. For what shall it profit an intellectual if he acknowledge a simple truth and lose his Weltanschauung? Good authors, too, who once knew better words now only use four-letter words, writing prose. Anything goes. All fortune can be mastered by endurance. Everywhere I go, I'm asked if I think the universities stifle writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. I can't understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems: It's like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife. Joyce Carol Oates invented this Jewish mother's wet dream in a Princeton laboratory, and now we have to live in a world where eager-to-please frauds like Foer receive unearned comparisons to geniuses like Burgess and Joyce. Continuing a disturbing recent literary trend, his overhyped, cutesy first novel, Everything Is Illuminated, features a fictional protagonist whose name is Jonathan Safran Foer. Incidentally, most of us get along just fine with a mere two names, dick. Or don't you like to write letters. I do because it's such a swell way to keep from working and yet feel you've done something. In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed—they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock! By trying we can easily learn to endure adversity. Another man's, I mean. |
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