A combination of reading Cormac McCarthy's new twin novels, The Passenger and Stella Maris, plus watching live BBC coverage of Kevin McCarthy's tortured attempts to be the Speaker of the House of Representatives, has led me to a new mental disorder I've termed "McCarthy's Syndrome," in which the subject continually hears the name "McCarthy," coming seemingly from nowhere, through the day and into the night- denoting perhaps the beat of a clock that leads finally to an atomic soup of "afterlife." I'm sure Big Pharma is working on a cure for McCarthy's Syndrome- it can't come soon enough!
Friday, January 6, 2023
The countdown of failed votes in (Kevin) McCarthy's Syndrome defines, in the optimistic sense, a great waste of time, while in the pessimistic sense of (Cormac) McCarthy it's a beautiful use of wasted time.
To ask the glaring question: What does the probability of Kevin McCarthy becoming Speaker have to do with a dying planet and a confused, frightened humanity? For that matter, what do the books of Cormac McCarthy, which deal directly with a dying planet and a confused, frightened humanity, have to do with a dying planet and confused, frightened humanity? In other words: What is politics for, and what is art for?
I feel at this point that I've definitively ended my political career because an admission that problems can be dealt with but not solved, not to mention a suggestion that all parties share the blame, isn't campaign advice you would pay for.
But what if your campaign carried a special gift, like that offered by Cormac McCarthy, who makes of pessimism the beautiful point of view it longs to be? If that isn't helpful balm I don't know what is.
With this in mind I send out, again, a call for a new political party. Yes, we all end up in the same anonymous soup, but can we at least control some of our specs during the slow boil?