At Rockefeller Center on a cold night, some years ago…
“…for me you are the only real poet of the sea, whereas you claim that it is only the ship itself you wanted to exalt… I don’t think you ever took my obsession with the sea seriously…in fact, because of my birth, childhood, and ancient insular atavism on a small Caribbean island, the sea is to me something absolutely basic, mingled with my very blood; and without my noticing, it has spread to every part of my being.
…one cannot stray far from the sea except by straying from oneself.”
Saint-Leger Leger, in a letter to Joseph Conrad, February 1921
Originally posted August 24, 2011
Circa Spring ’17.
Let us go then, you and I…
and I don’t believe Dylan Farrow. No victim of abuse could be as gleefully antagonistic as she is, as pleased with herself and so disingenuously proud of her own violence. She exploits the all-too-easily exploitable “Me,Too” to her dubious advantage.
To Hell with Dylan Farrow’s stage-managed lies, and to Hell with the mob hysteria she cultivates. Chalamet, Sorvino, Gerwig, the equine Rebecca Hall, et al. should live to be rightfully embarrassed by their PC absurdities.
Why aren’t these counterfeit liberals protesting America’s Kremlin-owned “president” and the Russian agent’s enablers within a complicit Republican Congress? Is it less of a risk for young (or middle-aged) white hipsters to attack an octogenarian Jewish man whose aesthetic doesn’t compute with the social media on their smartphones? It isn’t much of a stretch to see Woody Allen’s detractors for what they are: racists.
For a peaceful Christmas…
Originally posted December 20, 2010
from Endlessly Repeating Twentieth-Century Modernism (2007), by Josiah McElheny
In memory of P.J.S. on her sixty-first birthday.