Born Of A Hurricane

My last post, Maureen Dowd on Parade, was offered largely to prove to Contratimes readers that the sort of writing in which Ms. Dowd indulges is easy to duplicate. Such writing is not polemical or argumentative. Rather, it is fallacious, composed almost entirely of innuendo, insinuation and abusive remarks. In fact, it could be summarized in total as a form of abuse: abuse of fact, of mind, and of the person or persons subjected to such abuse. To the religious such prose is thoroughly uncharitable; to the philosophical, intellectually meaningless; to the kind, thoroughly sad; to the humble, so much sad conceit.

It is easy to be vicious, to mock. Uncharitableness is a violence of heart, and all violence is easier than kindness. It is easier to destroy a building than it is to erect one. It is easier to scoff at civility than to be civil. It is easier to vandalize one's wedding vows than it is to honor them. It is easier to tear down a president with one's laptop computer than it is to be a president so torn down.

Really, the easiest type of writing is the mean, the base, the crass. It is easy to insult; to get people to sneer. The man seated across from me at this café would be far more likely to wince if I were to strike him with my fist than he would be to laugh with joy if I told him a joke. Pain is easy to make, to give, to feel.

What is hard is joy.

The hardest type of writing, bar none, is that which attempts to make readers laugh, really truly laugh. And not that laughter which comes from watching someone fall off a curb or get beat up by a columnist. I am talking about the laughter filled with mirth and joy; the merriment of heart for which we all yearn. Writing which yields armloads of guileless giggling is the most elusive and the most difficult form of writing I know, which is, no doubt, a testament to the over-seriousness of my heart. It also proves the elusiveness of that great art.

So, all this to say that my essay ripping Ms. Dowd, and MSNBC's Howard Fineman and Don Imus, was mere homage to the easy art of denigration. Imus and Dowd at least have made careers out of pejoratives, while Fineman appears to have only indulged in the dark humor the snickering sets enjoy.

*****

September 21, 1961: A New Jersey hospital. Outside, Hurricane Esther, a storm that made a 350-mile complete circle south of Cape Cod. Inside, a brand new baby boy.

44 years later, I don't remember a thing. But my mother does.

Peace to you.

Contratimes

©Bill Gnade 2005/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.