Do you really need to ask?
It's in the medicine cabinet; on the psychiatrist's couch; in the conference committee--how many hemorrhoids should Medicare remove at taxpayer expense this year? It's in the boardroom with tiger-maple walls. It's on the couch where a flabby, flaccid, sullen, weak-eyed creature blearily blinks at the passing electrons--desperately clicking away; searching for some remotely human spark. It's buried in a pyramid of stuff composting in the garage--the sum total of the honorable man--"I make my payments on time."
So we're celebrating the 200th anniversary of Victor Hugo's birth. Big deal. He's an unrecognizable white man--a man who would be detested and mocked by most on this "conservative" forum. A fighter. A romantic--The Romantic. A Clown.
"...Listen. Think about what you are doing. One side has 100,000 men, seventeen mobile batteries, 600 cannon in the forts, and enough magazines, arsenals and munitions to fight the Russian campaign. The other side has 120 representatives, 1,000 or 1,200 patriots, 600 rifles, two cartridges a man, not a single drum for a call to arms...nor a single printer to print a declaration....Anyone who moves a cobblestone will be sentenced to death; anyone found in a secret assembly will be sentenced to death; anyone who posts a call to arm will be sentenced to death; if you are captured in combat--death. If you are taken after the fight--deportation or exile. On one side the Army and Crime. On the other a handful of men and Justice. That is the struggle. Do you accept it?
...A unanimous cry went up" "Yes, yes we accept it!"----An onsite transcription by a stenographer of an improvised Hugo speech before the French Assembly in the face of Louis Napoleon's coup d'etat-2 Decembre, 1851
A poet--the artistic blimp that presides over all of 19th century French art--and beyond--would not have understood our pale, fastidious, bloodless, keyboard Pontius Pilateness.
"...Leaving a barricade, one no longer knows what one has seen. One has been ferocious, yet one has no recollection of it. Swept up in a battle of ideas endowed with human faces, one's head has been in the light of the future. There were corpses lying down and phantoms standing up. The hours were colossal--hours of eternity. One has been living in Death. Shadows have passed. What were they? Hands with blood on them. A horrific, deafening din. An atrocious silence. Open mouths shouting; other mouths, also open, but soundless...One seems to have touched the sinister perspiration of unknown depths. There is something red under one's fingernails. One remembers nothing...."
But we are White. We have progressed beyond the open, bloody mouth of death. We send an e-mail to our congresmen.
I don't want to hear about what a clownAl Sharpton is. I don't want to hear eunuchs accusing others of being clowns--OK? Victor Hugo--an uncontested giant in human history would recognise the clownish Reverend more easily than he would his bovine racial brethren here in the Last Remaining Superpower On Earth--cough, cough, wheeze.
Black men have become White Men. White men have become titmice.
"..Catholics, like Communists, have committed great crimes. But at least they have not stood aside...and been indifferent. I would rather have blood on my hands than water, like Pilate....."
Graham Greene, The Comedians
[laughs] No, everyone is an ugly hunchback. But don't worry. Even though Esmeralda didn't (and couldn't) feel love for Quasimodo, that didn't affect either Quasimodo's love, or his ability to love.
I wouldn't be afraid of gun crazy cops, if I were you. In the 60s, the loser street scum used to try and demonize law enforcement, too. Nobody took them seriously back then and they had pretty hippie girls wearing sexy peasant blouses cursing at the cops. The people demonizing the cops today are just Frollo's with an agenda and no Esmeralda's in sight.
Mark W.