I considered another post on politics, but I can’t stand to think about it anymore. I can barely drag myself to the voting booth today. The two parties have deteriorated so much -- they really are both evil -- that my spirit is drained contemplating them. Most politicians are poltroons, scoundrels and fools; the best of them are mediocrities. I mean, think of what they do all day. These are people who like kissing strange babies.
I lament the hours good people spend arguing over these power-lusting creeps. And yet, the arguments must be waged because these creeps hold our lives and our fortunes in their hands. Like gangsters, they have a gun at our ribcage. There are institutions and traditions and truckloads of fine rhetoric to cover it all up and make it look civilized, but in the end it all comes down to that gun.
Last night I poured myself a glass of Chianti, fired up an expensive cigar and read a short story by Anton Chekhov. The story was “The Black Monk,” a tale that equates idealism with detachment from reality. (I suspect the story is a keystone to understanding Chekhov.) The ideas are bad, but still it’s great literature by a master. An hour or two spent with Chekhov is better than time spent on these polite gangsters called politicians.