The idea of unity, of unification in the face of some hostile power or force, may fairly be said to have possessed mankind for ages. In its hold on the minds of men it is second only to the demons of objective progress, subjective truth, and redistributed wealth.
His predicament is not all that different from that of the old man who used to sell me his honey under the cover of darkness.
I used to buy honey from a local, who would make an appointment with me to meet on a street corner. Bought clandestinely, in the manner of drugs, it tasted like heaven.
I just got back from Florence, whither I had been summoned to give a meandering, charmingly unintelligible ramble at the unveiling of a book to which I contributed an introductory essay.
Generally, as my father always said, a birthday is an occasion for rending one’s garments and scattering ashes over one’s head…
I am reminded of a passage in A. J. P. Taylor’s English History.
I reason, however, that I’m but a step away from my seventieth year in this vale of tears and an old bore can always produce the plain and honest excuse that he is old.
“The Bolshevik mentality is as old as history. Cain, in the Old Testament, had the mind of a Bolshevik.”
Soon thereafter I received a call from my wife, informing me that Nikolai “has ADHD” and the school was proposing to “put him on Ritalin.
