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Billmon: Really Proud
Maybe the old lie that anyone can grow up to be president is still just that — an old lie. But now we know that any child (man child at least) can grow up and become the presidential candidate of one of the country’s two main political parties — because the Democrats just proved it. (And eight years from now, I hope the party extends that same promise to every child, not just to those of us who are gender-challenged.)
But, one giant step at a time. Some months back Michelle Obama reportedly said that for the first time in her life, she was really proud of her country. I don’t know if she actually said that, or if she did what she meant by it — personally, I think anyone who is really proud of a country (any country) should be in a psych ward, not the White House.
I guess I can understand the emotion, though. Because for the first time I can remember — or at least since the House Judiciary Committee voted to impeach Richard Nixon — I’m really, really proud to be a Democrat. Billmon: Really Proud
— Note to new readers at Moon of Alabama. You may wonder why we have threads on Billmon posts here. The MoA About page explains the relation.
Ah, ye admonitions and warnings! why stay ye not when ye come? But rather are ye predictions than warnings, ye shadows! Yet not so much predictions from without, as verifications of the foregoing things within. For with little external to constrain us, the innermost necessities of our being, these still drive us on.
–Herman Melville, Moby Dick, p.163
Things fall apart. Things move on. And the “innermost necessities of our being” make us put our shoulders to the wheel and drive us on and on.
I fundamentally agree with Bernhard: Billmon makes the only viable choice, not just for indulging in a little life-giving hope, but for understanding what the alternative to Obama represents.
Some commenters here, who seem certain that Obama is a fixed political asset, whose decisions are a foregone conclusion, should look a little deeper into the intrinsic character of the person, and consider that he is not some kind of political robot.
What annie and waldo are telling us is that the democrats you saw at the Convention represent this country’s best and perhaps only hope, the nation’s only way out of Hell. They are America’s Humanists; face it. Their tears signify something. There has to be more to their faith than gullibility.
Obama is not Saint Francis. And just to inject an alternate interpretation, I will suggest that he may be something like Odysseus, “a man of wiles”…”a man of twists and turns” a consumate, talented politician.
Just because there are a few tricks and finesses up his sleeve, people should not think him capable of wrecking the world, in contrast to that model of psychopathology, John McCain.
McCain never tried to yoke together an ox and an ass, and plow circles in his field, in order to feign insanity, that he might not be conscripted to an insane war. McCain tells us that there will be war and more wars, and that “we will never surrender”.
McCain is promiscuous when it comes to war.
No one would ever compare McCain to Odysseus! Nor is McCain, with his clenched jaw, anything like Obama. In fact, from where I sit, Old John looks a lot like Ahab, the Captain of the Pequod.
Hark ye yet again–the little lower layer. All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event–in the living act, the undoubted deed–there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike–strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me. Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond. But ’tis enough. He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him. Talk not to me of blasphemy , man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the sun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. But not my master, man, is even that fair play. Who’s over me? Truth hath no confines. Take off thine eye! more intolerable than fiends’ glarings is a doltish stare!…
(ibid, p. 162)
Posted by: Copeland | Aug 29 2008 23:51 utc | 104
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