I do not care, a jot what men make of me. I know that I am not a raving lunatic – it is the country that is sick, for those who are believed are those who have so long deceived.
Long ago I wondered that a peoples constantly voted against its own interest – and then I saw the inherent lie, the conscientious exiling of empathy. No one represented real democracy – at least not until this year – but now I fear the honest man will not be heard
Bukowski thought so and Yeats said as much before him. The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
Intelligence implies doubt and that will be the downfall of thinking, tolerant men and women. The idiots with all the knee-jerk, brainwashed answers will see us behind bars before long or strung up and swinging on lampposts. I don’t know where I read it but it keeps ringing in my ears – History isn’t what is right. History is what is left.
( the best I can do, I’m afraid; I am so distressed I cannot write)