Monday, January 28, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Richard Blanco's poem for Obama's second inauguration is awful: exploitatively maudlin ("the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain / the empty desks of twenty children marked absent / today, and forever"); ostentatiously humble ("or ring-up groceries as my mother did / for twenty years, so I could write this poem," "hands / as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane / so my brother and I could have books and shoes"); saccharinely multicultural ("saying: hello, shalom, / buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días / . . . spoken into one wind carrying our lives / without prejudice"); and more. Much more. Elizabeth Alexander's poem four years ago was bad; this one's worse.
Later: Mark Steyn refers to Blanco as "that poet from hell."
Friday, January 11, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
"If there is hope it lies with the proles," says the hero of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four. I feel the same way about the Republican Party that Winston Smith felt about the proles: despair at their leaderless blindness, their meek acceptance of a corrupt system, their gullible swallowing of shallow lies and empty promises, yet awareness that while there is little to hope for from them, there is nothing whatever to hope for from the other party.
So just keep repeating to yourself: "If there is hope it lies with the proles" … and try not to remember how things turned out at last for Winston Smith.