Exquisite post today from Jack. Truly exceptional. Well-turned phrases, heartfelt sentiment logically and intelligently congealed into readable prose. Well-observed criticisms, and a degree of sensibility and balance one rarely sees in the blogoatmosphere.
What does it say, when the finest post-election commentary one reads comes from the electronic pen of a self-confessed drunkard and layabout? What does it mean for all of us, who find that of all the commentators, of all the analyzers, of all the reporters and editors and philosophizers, our own feelings are most in accord with a man whose most notable accomplishments have heretofore been consumption of liquids and vapors, bizarre feats of throat-noise, purchases of books on interior and graphic design, and the aiding and abetting of criminals into our very own home?
Indeed, consider - of all the writers presenting sum-ups of this election, only one ever allowed a thief into our home while we were innocently sleeping, and disturbed our slumber to tell us that "the code for shit" had been stolen. And yet, that is the one writer who seems to have captured the moment, who has summed up our own feelings, our own complicated loves and hates and resentments.
And this, indeed, is the central paradox of Jack. The gentleman vagabond, the vulgar prophet, the repulsive aesthete, the articulate bloviator. The courtly villain, the country buffoon who lives in the heart of the city.
And at this dark moment, he finds his finest hour. Well done, old boy. Somenotions presses on, confident that the artful sentence, the skillfully turned phrase, the insight that cuts to the heart of the matter, will last far longer than any temporal potentate.
