There is a remarkable essay by Matthew Scully at National Review Online this morning. I had no idea how long it was when I began reading it, and it’s probably too long to manage at work. Save it for when you have 20 or 30 minutes to read it carefully.
Be warned that it will likely make you uncomfortable, perhaps even greatly so.
One of my dad’s old friends used to tell a childhood story of sneaking out on the roof after he’d been put to bed. He would lie with his feet against the chimney and listen to the adults talking below. When he wanted to go back to bed, he’d lean up, grab either side of the chimney, and pull himself up.
Over time, he weakened the brickwork enough that one night he did it and pulled about a hundred pounds of chimney back onto his chest. (He wasn’t hurt, and my dad’s friend told this very humorously.)
It’s an apt metaphor for how I feel after reading the above essay. It’s sitting on my chest, not doing much of anything but being heavy and uncomfortable right now.
I’ll have to do something about it.