Across meridian and frontier, the world seems to be shrinking. Like a cheap shirt thrown in the washing machine by a careless teenager, or else by the slovenly and incompetent mother who raised him, it seems to have lost its original color and dimension over the spin cycle of a generation.
There is a historical episode to which time and again I turn as more news of the West’s strategic enfeeblement comes over the transom. The gentle reader may find the reference obscure, but I can assure him that to most Russians of my age and background it’s textbook stuff. The episode is the June 1937 torture and execution, on Stalin’s orders, of Marshal “Red Napoleon” Tukhachevsky. His confession of having been all along a German agent, which survives in the archives of the secret police, “is dappled with a brown spray that was later found to be blood-spattered by a...
“As I write, highly civilized human beings are flying overhead, trying to kill me” is, famously, the opening sentence of a 1941 essay by Orwell. But Blitz or no Blitz, to our ears the phrase sounds a little hysterical.
A friend of a friend asked his friend, a medical student, how many bones there are in the human body. In reply he heard that there is no definite answer. “You mean to tell me,” he pressed on in astonishment, “that since the days of the Victorian vivisectionists nobody’s bothered to come up with the answer?”
The gentle reader may recall that I was once a student at Yale. There, unforgettably, a preternaturally astute classmate named Steve (where is he now, I wonder? In a nuthouse, most likely, along with everybody else who is preternaturally astute) once buttonholed me to deliver a lecture on the architecture of the university, specifically the residential colleges, the Sterling Memorial Library, and other structures of the 1930’s.
I have often wondered about the principle of disclosure, which is so easily taken to interesting lengths. Of course like others I can applaud when a journalist doing a story on some Fortune500 company is criticized for not revealing that the CEO is his brother-in-law, or when a juror is prosecuted for concealing an intimate connection with the man on trial. But beyond that?
All drunken men are alike, one might say paraphrasing Tolstoy, but every drunken woman shows inebriation in her own way. Up to a point, however. When they’ve had one too many, all Russian women of my generation or younger end up singing the same song with the inevitability of a cuckoo clock chiming the hour…
Doubtless the gentle reader appreciates that in two hundred or more posts published in this space during the term of the outgoing administration I hardly ever mentioned President Trump. Instead I sat on my hands, which kept me from biting my nails, and watched the spectacle unfold. Yet kicking a man when he’s down is hardly comme il faut…
Oscar Wilde, as the gentle reader may recall, was undone not by his own crime, which “love that dare not speak its name” was in those balmy days, but by the crime of libel, of which he had incautiously accused Lord Queensberry.
At first glance, abetting a healthy child with full connivance of the state to “change sex” seems to have nothing to do with Marx or socialism. Considering the question more closely, however, we see that gender, like other human endowments, is a form of private property; that it is, in point of fact, a property; and that, along with money, land, and any other means of production, this property can and, a Marxist would argue, must be summarily expropriated.
