Category: Wednesday’s Child

One night when I was young, foolish, and poor – some qualities that are yet mine own – I was on a Metro-North train from Grand Central Station in New York to New Haven, Connecticut, where I lived after university.

It occurs to me that while “The Politics of Fashion” is common pabulum for talk shows and women’s magazines, nobody writes on “The Fashion of Politics.” Yet it’s a serious subject worth exploring.

When the hero is a martyr to boot, first tortured for months on end and finally speared by the tyrant’s own hand, a timeless vista opens on the struggle of good and evil. It’s the stuff of the vitae of Christian saints, pure and simple.

The standard view of education, as applied in schools the world over, is that the knowledge which children are to acquire is like a sewing kit with different spools of thread whence the required color is drawn. Specialization is the rule from an early age, with toddlers taught not to confuse apples and oranges.

It’s a sight that breaks one’s heart, like chancing upon a woman one was in love with and has not seen for half a century.

Every time I set foot in the First World, I feel like the Last Man. It starts, as if filmed by a student of Kusturica’s, with the guards by the X-ray machine at the airport checking the shoes of my two-year-old for plastic explosive. That, and the ritual command to “remove the belt,” is the great propylaea to the world beyond Palermo. They are afraid the traveler will hang himself with the belt while they screen him.

The “Nanny State” is a figure of speech that could only have come from England. To devise a metaphor one needs a more than passing familiarity with its vehicle, indeed it must be second nature to the metaphorist.  “All the world’s a stage,” said William Shakespeare because he was a playwright. “The Lord is my rock,” said the nameless Canaanite psalmist because to this day Palestine is a stony place in more ways than one.

A frothy brouhaha is brewing in Georgia, a political and religious scandal worth following. An Orthodox icon has been uncovered in Tbilisi’s Holy Trinity Cathedral which shows a twentieth-century Saint, St. Matrona of Moscow, in the company of no less unsavory a personage than Joseph Stalin.

New Year’s Eve is always a conundrum wrapped in tinsel dilemmas, still more so for a habitual inebriate prone to superstition. But even when sober, my compatriots believe that “as you meet it, so you’ll spend it,” meaning that the last day in December represents the coming year in miniature, something like one of those presepio Biblical scenes, complete with microscopic sheep and papier-mâché Magi.